you are an illusion to me

     and

I am an image captured by your eyes

The veins on your arms
Remind me of crumpled paper
Which I hold on tight to,
Then loosen my grip,
Smoothing out the imperfect surface.

My eyes follow each string up your arm—
Untying the ribbon like opening a gift—
And back down again, to your fingertips.
My very own quiver
Like the tip of a quill pen.

I notice there are blanks to fill in,
And proceed to write my name
With my finger, onto your palm.
I write something longer,
And it doesn't tickle or bother you.

Then our little fingers wrestle:
it's a strong pinky promise.
We seal it with a swear of the hand,
And a handshake. We hold it in place,
Until our fingers are intertwined.

One more seal, with a kiss this time,
As I bring your hand up to my lips.
I won't let you go now.
This is how I write poetry
With my bare hands.

I began to realize that even though the violence was over,
I still carried it with me

I still woke up to claw marks outside my bedroom door

I still hold the anger in my stomach as I write letters to myself

begging me to
                         come
                            home

This ache is a constant reminder and the silence is louder than you think

I carry around the
body of someone
that should have
died

There are lots of big open questions
but most answers are small
and that's ok
better than none at all

Withered and within
a dying breath
and yarns of endless ephemerae,
like thunder, like lightning,
igniting ages of delusion;
A fear.

Astral and adrift,
I  bloom in adventures,
yet amble in ink of hundred hues,
like a bubble, like a feather,
lazing in prismatic pastels;
A vagabond.

Etched and enshrouded  ,
a fiery trail of my footprints
I have yet to reach,
like a fantasy, like a nightmare,
calling, in dusk-soaked whispers;
A journey.

A life ahead.