You love in a place
where no one knows
how to dance with wind—
sleep along dissapearing trails
and the kind of being
who can bring
kneeling down for
the slightest human, innocuous gaze,
enveloping luminous wonder within
mystic forest ferns.
Blooming and dying,
these flowers of yours
still live just the same.
Every day you wish,
this kind of life cycle
would somehow change,
but you only receive repetition in return.
For each death and new life,
a seed inside you yearns,
desiring a halt in the agonizing process,
the never-ending nightmare,
that you realize won’t ever quit
until you do.
In the here and now,
I know I’m the antonym against your name.
The fact I can deal with a pull of the muscle,
perplexes your cynic mind, living as a mundane.
You can’t seem to accept the idea of me winning over you
and would rather watch my carcass fall apart
in bittersweet, subtle hues.
But I am more than a bodily structure,
I prefer to mold myself like a conductor—
fueling my personal wavelength
that will aid me the coming days without enough light.
While you gaze from afar
ambushed by electric city winds,
losing grip of your coat,
this new kind of weather will intrigue you
more than you ever hoped.
your murky voice fades.
I sterilize its sound; preserve meager cobalt leaves
when truths blend in.
Happy Earth Day!😄💙🌱🌎
you cry out a little spark.
blue moon dreams
flicker your mind crisp cold.
your head rests on balloon tears,
tinfoiled nights twice glossed over.
my hands fuse into yours,
covered with twinkling pulses,
upsetting the slow way of life behind a sternum.
burying our self-worth,
smoke hides what we both only know.
you envy the sky for its cosmic behavior.
between a detached head and heart,
the lonely LED light goes low.
We immerse ourselves into conversation;
I listen to every word,
drizzling off your parted, port wine stain lip.
something about rain,
something about why it sucks to be you,
but all I can contemplate
is how such a beauteous being could ever complain
when everything they do
secretly makes the world want to pause,
not seeking more momentum to complete another rotation
even when there isn’t any force it has to work for,
just to witness a killer mirage of you—
as a tempestuous piece of art assembled in shambles.
Sometimes thinking about you,
can make me wonder about whether I made the right choice.
Is it better to let the veins grow tall to the clouds,
or should I dig them deeper into Earth
where they’ll be secure enough from foreseeable cruel thorns?