With a pen and paper,
I undertake the no named tug
that lures me
to recount the memories.

The thoughts are
entangled with my blood.
I feel them gushing through
every nerve and vein.

They are gritting under my skin,
risking to collapse my entire self.
I don’t know how to
make it stop.

All I can relive are late nights,
forsaken in my bed
reminiscing about you.
If you were here.

These moments seep through
my skin like a leaky faucet.
The act of forgetting
is simply necrosis.

My stomach has become a valley,
empty but for the stones that crash.
Shards lay everywhere
and it has pierced my essence.

Dear one, what am I to do?
Am I to extinguish my flame to
stop the misery?
Bruises are forming everywhere.

I write this poem to cement that we had existed.
At one point, we had loved,
we had laughed,
and we had lived.

We happened and we were happy.
I was infatuated with you.
You were my everything,
and I was yours.

There was a moment where
I would have been able to die,
happily without regret
just knowing our love was real.

I feel this ache that runs through
my veins and body,
in a painful rush.
What have you done to us?

The thought of you with another
overwhelmed me to the point of breakage.

Sometimes I wonder if you think of me,
if you long for me as I do for you.

I have always desired intensity,
emotions so strong they burn.

Our love burned to ash, and
I was left sifting through it for my heart.

I watched you walk away from the wreckage,
soot on your shoes and face.

In the core of the mess, I wailed,
gnawing at myself to dissolve.

You washed yourself off in a river
much more stronger than my own tide.

I watched it as it swept you away and
before vanishing, you smiled.

Now in this wreckage alone, I see
the cracked mirror on the surface.

It was once covered with flowers
that sprouted from our words of love.

As I wash away the ash with my tears,
I wound myself on the sharp glass.

The blood pools on the mirror and
I at long last see myself.

We are all condemned
to demise and desertion;
an unknownity that resides
in an absent corridor.

The fight has ever been
alluring. the inevitability
of calamity creates
an artistry unlike others.

Perhaps it's the
authenticity of death itself.
yet we sustain the fight,
often with exhilaration.

We will never be in this crack again,
and subsequently our ashes will
vanish into the envelope and
we will become nothing.

We are everything.
A conjunction of entity and being
with a psyche for theory.
Palms lingering for ease.

How can something be so viable;
attuned to everything,
be ravaged and erased
into nothing?

There is a beauty in the end,
attraction in departure.
Some spend their lives evading it,
others seeking it.

Death is only the birth.
leaving a print of the past
and venturing into
another awakening.

And nobody knows where
that leads to or why.
Everything is more beautiful
because we are all doomed.