My wrist-watch has stopped working,
It’s tick tick ticks had ceased,
The second hand suspended in void,
Waiting for time to be released.

I made my way to the clock-maker
And entered into a tocking room
Multiple hands moving about
While mine waited to resume.

The bearded man studied me
With an unsettling grin
As he took my watch away
And such he did begin

A minute passed and then two,
And perhaps three or four
Then suddenly, I heard my
watch begin ticking once more

I paid the man, who gave a smile
And turned right towards the door.
I barely noticed that the clocks
Were not ticking anymore

And when I stepped outside
I had looked up to see
That the world around me had stopped
All except for me.

So I turned to see the shop
And found it was not there,
And so I stood, in silence, too,
With my watch ticking in the air.

First you catch their attention.
A smile, a flirting laugh of breathy air.
Perhaps you’ll trace your fingers across
their knuckles, press your thumbs
against their barren palms.
Your low voices whisper into
the air, quiet conversations
over cups of steaming coffee.

They will want to see you again.

Their face will light up like
fireflies dancing in twilight,
and you will feel wanted and
important, excited like a child
unwrapping a birthday gift.
You’ll take walks through woods,
drive through busy streets and
sit side by side on park benches.

They will come to enjoy your presence.

You will laugh more together,
dream up of ideas and activities
like making road trips, seeing
families, concerts, sharing holidays.
You touch more, hand holding,
kissing, embracing, feel whole
and comfortable with the other,
finally feeling wanted and loved.

They will be loyal to you.

You will leave a cold text.
You made yourself unforgettable,
a blot in their memory, your
ghost left in all the trembling spaces
where you connected with one another.
They imagine you with someone new.
They constantly wonder if you ever cared
about them like they did for you.

They yearn for an answer
but plead for ignorance.

That’s how you get someone to love you.

I don’t focus much on death itself anymore,
but what comes after.

Whatever comes will be, and that is that.
I cannot change it, and there’s no sense in agonizing over it.
I like to imagine my body after the event, when I am no
longer conscious, and the breath in my lungs have long
dissipated like last season’s floral.

Even though the chances are slim, I like to imagine being in the forest, surrounded by trees and flowers and perhaps a stream. I imagine a sort of time-lapse, my body collapsing inward, my skin peeling away, my hair wilting like autumn leaves.

Mushrooms will grow beneath my fingers, wildflowers will tangle themselves within my hair and ribcage, blooms and blossoms of all colors will emerge through my chest. My bones will grow moss and Mother Earth will swallow me whole. Tree roots will wrap around me, engulfing me, pulling me towards themselves. I will be wanted, I will belong.

Let me nurture you like you’ve done with me, let me help you grow and flourish into who you are to become, let me be your trellis, your shield, your hill. I will allow you to bloom such as you have me, and we will flourish together, life within death. It goes on, and it is peaceful.

Where there is death or change,
new growth awaits.

On the day you left
I went to class
I couldn't concentrate
I read your last message
I thought it was a mistake
I tried to eat lunch
I wasn't hungry
I read your message
I scrolled through reddit
I scrolled through Facebook
I searched for you
I couldn't find you
I read your last message
I thought perhaps
you were scared
I checked my Snapchat
You were gone
I read your last message
I did laundry
I tried to study
I read your last message
I thought it was my fault
I cried
I wrote a poem
I read your last message
I went to the library
I pretended to study
I read your last message
I met with a friend
I stayed up late
I laughed and joked
I went to my dorm
I plugged in my lights
I changed into my pajamas
I read your last message
I watched funny videos
I didn't laugh
I unplugged the lights
I read your last message
I repeated the words
I stayed up way too late
I thought perhaps
I never mattered to you
I didn't touch my phone
The message is burned
inside my head

It dwells in alleyways of silhouettes
In clicking sounds in cars
In storms where the wind seems to
Take away your breath

It lives within a stranger’s smile
In a tight grip on the shoulder
In footsteps following you and
Speeding up when your heart
Begins to race.

It is beautiful. It is sudden. It lingers.

It is the spinning, twirling confusion
That leaves you stuck within a
Bubble of white-cold, unsure
Of which direction to go.

All is silent and the

Eerie stillness one feels
With their toes peeking over the edge
Falling, the air whipping about them.
Down
Down
Down

Into the icy depths of liquid

Limbs are heavy, body and mind exhausted
Lungs restricting, pleading for a bite of air
But all you taste is

Fluid

Dripping from your wounds
As you push open your crumpled
Car door, shaking and crying, still
Clutching the phone in your

Hands

Clutching yours, murmured whispers
Of cryptic regret, of cherished moments.
You aged body sinks into the bed
Your grip loosens on theirs
And despite this peaceful end
Your brain screams

Survive! Survive! Survive!
Live! Live! Live!

As you sink into
Six-foot deep holes and
Into dark alleyways
Of silhouettes.

There is a church sitting
in a desert far from
civilization, yet when the
bell rings, all the wayward
souls arrive and sit along
the dusty pews.

They look upon the grimy stained glass,
their hands clasped together,
mouths moving in silent prayer,
eyes shining with hope and
glowing from the colored dust.

Here, there is shelter against
the burning heat of the sun
that cracks the white paint
on the church sides, revealing the
grey beneath.