funny how the numbers don’t lie,
even when i do.
unadded, unseen, but somehow
you’re still the one i sent the most to.

the world’s got a habit
of chewing you up,
spitting you out
like a bad cigarette.
it doesn’t care
how many dreams you’ve got,
how many scars
you’ve earned.

people will smile at you,
talk about hope
like it’s something you can hold in your hands,
but they never mention
how it slips through your fingers
like sand
and disappears
before you can even grab it.

they tell you
there’s always a way out—
but you know better,
don’t you?
the exits are all locked
and the keys
are hidden in places
nobody bothers to look.

so you drink,
you smoke,
you **** up again and again,
and maybe you smile,
but it’s a lie,
a desperate lie,
just like everything else
they told you.

the truth?
the truth is,
no one’s coming to save you,
no one’s going to rewrite the rules,
no one’s going to put you back together
after you break.

you’ll just keep going,
because what else is there?
and the world will keep spinning,
chewing,
spitting,
until you’re nothing
but dust in its mouth.

Close the curtain
stem the night
feel uncertain
light the light

A careful hand, threading tracks like beads—
Each song a thread, a whisper's need.
A heart's collage of static noise,
Crafted hopes, hushed joys and poise.

The clack of play, the tape unwinds,
A story spooled in stops and binds.
“Listen,” it pleads, though words are few,
This mix, this bridge, from me to you.

In loops and fades, confessions spun,
The things unsaid, yet softly sung.
A borrowed voice, an unseen tear,
Echoes bound by magnetic smear.

Pressed to palm, the gift exchanged,
A quiet pact, a world arranged.
Between the hiss, in tapes grown worn,
A fleeting now, forever sworn.

I held you
tightly,
on top of an
eight-story parking lot,
right after a cigarette
and a long walk
down the bayou.

A city so similar,
yet so different
from our own,
the smell of desire
checking corners,
slipping through museum corridors,
obsessed with
uncentering paintings
drawn long before
you and me.

Before we leave,
to return to the mundane,
I perch a kiss,
so unnecessary,
but so needed.

Flowers start blooming,
first between cracks in the pavement,
then in the hollow of my chest.
Their roots stretch inward,
clinging to all that
once felt barren.

Petals unfurl
in places I thought
were long forgotten
soft violets behind my ribs,
sunflowers tracing
the outline of your smile.
Each bloom carries
the weight of us,
fragile, fleeting,
but alive.

Life is the threshold
existence is a windy doorway

The fluctuating

flood-mark, a boundary of --


dry seaweed flowers.