Barely warm tea leaves
brew with a blissful wonder,
reminds me of love.

My mouth becomes dry,
At the thought of you, my dear,
Dazzling them all.

The cut on my inner palm.

It reminds me of the night you told me that
you thought we'd be better off going on our own paths,
and how my blood didn't seep as deeply into life's cloth
as your longing for someone new was aching above the surface.

No one saw
the sun that bled
in my mouth –
it burned a distinct taste
onto my tongue
that reminded me
of you.

Take a photograph,
Let it develop slowly,
Patience is virtue.

Our fingers brushed in the gallery opening
not so long ago,
we were in a room full of art,
but you were the only masterpiece I was looking for.

It's been awhile
since I have let myself feel
anything at all.

Trauma from the past
knows how to enter itself
back into your life
when you least expect it,
causing the dominoes of your
sanity to collapse under the
societal pressures you've housed
your mental state into, silently
praying there will be a glitch in
gravity that will cause all motions
and bad thoughts to cease, leaving you
with a state of uninterrupted peace and
numbness to shield your remaining
innocence and childlike mannerisms away.
Even if it's just for a second.

All of our brains
are sick with worry and fear.
Mental illness *****.

To paint?
To write?
To make a cup of coffee
in the broad morning light?

To sing?
To create?
To have something tangible
created in the wake?

Of tragedy
Of plague
Of a sickness we aren't sure we have
we quarantine because reason is vague?

Dim candlelight illuminates the mistakes
while the shadows envelop the rest of my thoughts.
Darkness never seems to end when it stems
deeply from within one's self.

You have not aged well.
The weight you carried became
your worst enemy.

Sometimes the past comes
and its earth-shattering sound
vibrates through your skull.

Bleeding from my lips,
breathing in tortuous love
when I'm all alone.

Finding ways to heal
It takes time and reflection
Isolation helps.