I searched the Sun back and forth for any remnant scorch marks of our love, but all that was left were trails blazed by broken hearts and the insecure decisions made by those around us, whom spoke sub zero opinions around our flame — Choking it into the frosted conversation on the cobble stones of my past habitation.

Now, we sit.

Miles apart — noses pierced.

A daily reminder of the intimacy and mirrored beauty we shared.


Now, all that’s left of our dialogue is a screen telling me, your updates of which you veneered to the general public about how you are feeling. 


The equator between us has left me naturally fading away, further and further into the arms of my pillow, where once you were held.


We clutched each others skins, pressing away the worries and troubles of which the world threw at us.

You were a high tower and refuge.
You stabled the light of which would beacon the rest of my lighthouse heart for the world to see.

 Silently, scuttling across the floors of seas we would sit.
Oblivious to the popular culture and its fierce tricks to drown us in capitalism.

Our Icarus hearts made from feathers of hope, melted into wax statues of Medusa villainy.

This drought through the desert has taken me more than 40 days, which feels like 40 years, passing through to eternity, just a few seconds ago.


I am truly Thirsty. 


You never wanted us to be sticky labeled and worn above the chest for the world to see ‘hi we’re called relationship, we are just like everyone else’.

No, you were not like that.

I hope you never will be.


How you used to stare at me staring at the visions of the day unfolding right before the eyes of the economical streets we used to walk upon.


I was lost in thought, as you were lost in mine, and then I gazed into yours and the lightbulb clicked and beamed my cheeks to grin, revealing whitened teeth, joyful in your spirit.


Alone, I gaze at the moon and release a lung filled sigh of cigar smoke and tilt my head back and think of what we were and where we will be.

Not  collectively, but by ourselves guided by the shadow of the moonlight, taking us to the tides shore to baptise us until we wake unknown to one another, like the first time I saw your face in Early November.

Death
is
subjective.

Harvests
of
thought
which
stir the
midnight
consolations
churn
and
turn
empty
capacities.



Emotions
which
awaken
yet
cease
all
in
the
space
of
30
spent
seconds,
little
slaughter.


Equinoxes
sprung
and
autumnal
spines
break
flooding
in
a whispered
annihilation.

Expiration
morphs
wasteland
into
sentience
as
Darkness
of
a post
apocalypse
draws
and
sketches
on
a
spent
sheet of
paper.