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” Death is such a curious thing, don’t you think? How nostalgia, love and sadness all accompany it? Its almost as if somebody hands you plate of chocolate cake and them smothers it with charcoal - Its bitter and not pleasant, but in a weird way, it gives you a form of satisfaction, and between the charcoal is a sweet taste. Maybe not the sweetest, but it’s sweet nevertheless.
a thousand walls of history
in between stacks of skins and satelittes
is hidden, a secret microcosm
but enchanting, at the least
a constant haze of pathos, shores divide and muscles loosen.
eyes soften and teeth speak a broken prose, your bones are like phantom limbs, broken and fading like ghost dust, in a moonlit hour, you ask me, is that all there is? and with every second you fade into your surroundings, your skin like smashed porcelain, your eyes a burnt crimson, you leave me now. but you are not gone forever. you speak in the quiet hush of the wind, in the raindrops that fall among the pavement, and in the weeping thoughts of a day dream, you are there, etching to come back.
Love, alongside death, is a lonesome character. Its character is so insanely intense even her own mind doesn’t even recognise its actions. Love, is a reckless being that is certainly broken in some ways, so broken that she can never be fixed – Love tries hard though, she ultimately wants to impress, and she wines and dines and is often quite a cheery woman. But then she spills out too many words and too many actions, too many facts and too much matter. She spills it out on people, and she picks you apart, but she never wanted to hurt. She only wanted to sooth and repair but she’s so broken her self that repairing other people can only make matters worse.
Love fell one day, she fell so hard that she failed to recover. And this falling rippled onto to other people, and they too fell, and they fell into her – Causing her to sustain even more injuries. And they did too, because falling into love isn’t pain free, it’s going to hurt you as much as it is going to hurt her.
Sometimes I feel like windows are mere mirrors, and sometimes we just imagine what we see out of them, rather then the reality which is painted through the glass.
I like to imagine that when there are no cars or people in the streets at night, streetlights begin their own stories, and they’re enamored with one and other, and they lean into each other, and their lights intertwine, and they rest. Street lights always look tired. In the bustling city nights, they dance.
Time has become like a dandelion lately, the seeds are firmly attached for a long time, and only breathes of wind make each seed drift, but then a gust of wind comes along, and all the seeds are blown into different directions and have seemingly lost each other forever.
”They stole every inch of my skin away and transformed it into a masquerade, they made my eyes turn sleepless, they stole me away, they stole me and they never replaced me. I faded into teardrop footprints and I moulded into the night. Where did I go? Do my lungs even breathe with colour anymore? Do my words speak anything of value?” ”My body was violated and torn into every single direction, they ripped the life from me, they twisted out the hallow sounding of my soul and shattered it. I am nothing anymore. I was never born to be anything!”
Sometimes I would just like to crack open your mind, pour the contents into a wine glass and drink up your thoughts as if you were a nectar graced from god. I want to familiarize my self with every contort of your skin, I want to interlock my fingers with yours, I want to feel your eye lash flutter upon my skin, but mostly, I want to know you, not just feel you, know you. Why won’t you let me have you? I feel like rather while I’m drinking your sweet thoughts your clearing the vomit that I call mine.
