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Oskar Erikson Jun 14
i think the worst thing
is never knowing how
many photos of us
you had on your phone;
while im sitting here
ruminating how
i ended up alone.
Oskar Erikson Jun 10
i tell the 7th
date of the week.                  -managed 2 on tuesday-
and my                   eyes journey
to soft
                hollow behind-ear
                the words tense     his teeth

I think if it weren’t for the fact i counted the steps from this bar
                                  to the train station
        and i.                  landed on your door number
I’d have run back.      you’re just lucky

he’s just waiting to see   if I’ll take him home or to a
                                            hotel so he can hold
        count down the steps         into me

                                               lustful in vengeance  

for the blasphemy of trying to raise the dead in
the same breath
as putting him to rest.

-please            let the first pulse of release
set me           free and away
down-         gifted and taken gratefully
much of my commute
these past few days
has been about the first call
we’ll never have after our break.

obsessing over
the receiver bringing
through your imagined hello
in more weeks than i dare count.

my phones notif’s are almost taunting me
reminders from every little corner of the internet
that life can’t pause
the moving on
after the
death of another gay boys feelings.

the thought
eventually there’ll be an
unspoken acceptance
your voice will never be close and familiar again

unshackles me.

as the northern line pulls into the platform
i like to imagine somewhere under its torturous sound
you’re speaking to me and i just can’t hear it.

this is the peace i’ve been left with
to patch myself up
in all of its ugly simplicity.

oh how a heart can sink but still shine.
oh how my love can be smothered
and you be fine.
there’s a leak in my bedroom.
it drips
into the eyes of the stranger i brought home tonight.
i’d sleep on that side-
on my back-
staring at the mildew.
counting backwards from one hundred
till my irises
are coated in a grey warmth
as he reaches over to stroke my thigh.
for a moment, this ceiling induced
cataract lets things become
and opaque.

i have no pride left to speak of - 2 weeks since the 17th of March - you left me.

swiftly though
the body rejects any attempt to pretend
the saltwater rushes to corneas
wiping these eyes
-trapped on a burning film reel of us-

i let this man hold what’s left of me
so i can pretend
the pieces you took are pulsing in misery.
heard the mountaintop
be scraped clear of snow this morning.
some angry man
shouting up the cliffsides
he said:
"take it all and quickly.
before my hands find the strength to close.
take me into the calm
this thin air carries my tears too easily."
he said:
"you were right about my legs
standing for the sake of looking down at you
scared of laying things bare"
he cried
"i was wrong about you
that the words meant something more
and that things get better in the end"-------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------

"that things get better in the end"

smothered in something icywarm
Oskar Erikson Sep 2021
I read from my seventh gay YA novel of the year as the central line whirls by my skull
scraping away the buried sensations
looking across the pockmarked platform
to year 8
the boy who I kissed in secret in the changing rooms
suddenly looked like death on the school pitch
since the passes were now higher harder and tackles less friendly
without words exchanging I think maybe then he knew our practice wasn’t something we could repeat
that the risk of pretending to be as much of lover a boy can was too adult too real for lunchtime escapes
maybe then my feet knew his retreating frame in the summer heat was an unconscious betrayal           my heart failing to reach out and soothe his agony when the metal studs flirted with his skin
and he’s looking up at me like a salve like some sort of safe haven leaving him on the astroturf to bleed alone
and in that moment
I reach out across the lines to try to smooth out his face and tell him he will stand
and his smile will make the pain yield
and his hands will hold another boy
and will not be left alone
I pull my hand back to let him rest at last
and the train pulls in.
Oskar Erikson May 2021
"Are you still there? Are you still listening?"
"its not like i've typed out our conversations many times before.
the things we said in days previous, couldn't live too long inside of me
so my fingers got used to pressing against the easily bruised keys of the phone screen until every tap kept telling
to run,
lightly and with love.
its seeing the
criss/crossed markings like nautical charts. laying out the gorges and gaps ahead for us, why couldn't there be another way
i thought to set sail with your spirit
clutched tightly to my chest.
"i don't think so."
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