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Oct 2020 · 98
a Ghost
nadine shane Oct 2020
i am
nothing more than
a vestige of existence;
an iota of deception.

even if
the rays of the sun
encapsulate me,
the streaks of moonlight
seem to weave itself
with
the empty shell that i am;

the murmurs
of the night-entangled hallways
call out to me,
claiming me as their own.

i am
nothing more
than an intruder
in this borrowed body,
mourning for the tragedies
forgotten and erased.
the night is drunk with rage.
Jul 2020 · 244
bitterness of silence
nadine shane Jul 2020
and then i saw you
again; the silence between
us became painful.
smithereens of our universe ruthlessly scattered to dust.
Apr 2020 · 102
my love.
nadine shane Apr 2020
a scintilla of warmth
envelopes me
whenever
you assure me of every quandary
that i have within me.

you untangle me
from the questions
that i am tied with
and make sense of
what i cannot grasp.

you are the embodiment
of the rays of sun
peeking through a gap
after an eternity underground.
happy birthday, onat. i love you.
Jan 2020 · 105
CONGRUENCE.
nadine shane Jan 2020
you are more than
just dusted "i love you's"

you are the sun,
setting down,
assuring me
of the little questions
i have within me.

you cradle the zephyr
that i carry
on my burdened shoulders
and i watch
as you let it crumble
on your deific palms
as every modicum of doubt
disappears.
(hello onat, ily)
Dec 2019 · 308
j.
nadine shane Dec 2019
j.
i was wont
to the company
of the begrudging night lights,
ceasing to hope
for the rays
of the melted sun
to cascade through me.

and then
you ensorcelled me
with your
quick-witted replies
and unfiltered mouth;

forsooth,
you became the reason
for my peripeteia.

so much so
that the magnitude
of my affection
cant be quantified.
hi, jonathan. i love you.
Nov 2019 · 317
SUMMER REVERSED
nadine shane Nov 2019
the warmth, lingering,
i could breathe for a moment
and then you left me.
it seems as though im suffocating.
Nov 2019 · 163
WARPED.
nadine shane Nov 2019
the nights devoid of holiness
always seemed
to find itself tangled
with the crestfallen visage
always plastered on mine.

a close acquaintance of mine
would be the moon--

glimmering and illuminating
the regrets and mistakes
emblazoned deeply
onto every fibre of my being.

my dreaded moment has come--
the clock made itself known;
reverberating
through the fragile threshold
i dared to call my home.

once more,
it made me a fool
for believing
i could be liberated
from this labyrinth.
make it stop.
Oct 2019 · 127
crestfallen
nadine shane Oct 2019
our naked silence & honey kiss
were nothing to him
he will curse our empty love
with a bittersweet word

and you let it **** us.
how fickle.
Aug 2019 · 711
WISTFULNESS ON THE 26TH
nadine shane Aug 2019
would it be selfish of me
to ask for more
than sneaky glances here and there?

mouths desperate
to form sentences
to confabulate with you
but i rebel against my own body,
incorrigible mutters
bolting its way out of my lips.

would it be selfish of me
to ask for more
than an hour to spend with you?

eyebrows knitting together
in confusion
as you laugh
about matters of the heart,
looking through me
with perceptive eyes
and i try not to look away.

but fate
has a terrible affinity
for separating the two of us,

so i wish
we werent back to square one
but that would be wistful thinking.
dont leave me hanging again. how cruel of  you.
Jul 2019 · 329
THE THINGS THAT I HATE
nadine shane Jul 2019
i hate talking
to myself about you.

i hate crafting
poetic idioms and metaphors
that only remind me of
walking through endless hallways,
hoping to find the exodus of everything.

i hate counting
the stars on the firmament above —
i know i will always lose count
but i will always count back to the beginning.

i hate visualizing
sceneries that seem to say frozen
in front of me:
two shadows falling on each other
to fill the empty spaces
but the gap will never cease to exist.

i absolutely despise
writing about the curves of your lips
but my mind cannot fathom
how deeply besotted i am with you.

so i turn you into poetry —
because i cannot have you in any other way.
i hate you.
Jul 2019 · 400
THE SECOND ATTEMPT
nadine shane Jul 2019
your name will forever linger on my mouth,
immeshing the dust within the fragile pages of a literary classic.

“my eyes were dazed by you for a little, and that was all.”
you saunter freely with romantic words i cannot grasp and call as ours.

my love for you seeps out of the vintage texts—
unfinished; refusing to fill out the blanks and questions.

in vain —
that’s what all it was.

no more, no less.
the act of being   FOOLISH.
Jul 2019 · 309
guillotine of words
nadine shane Jul 2019
i fancy
using flamboyant words.

"you make me feel like ****"
shifts into
"you have left me
in such a state of perplexity
that even i can
absolutely not comprehend."

"i am heartbroken"
turns into
"the existence of pain and longing
makes itself wont
to the confines of my heart,
making a home out of it.”

"i hate you"
morphs into
"a surfeit of sentiments
fill the pail to the brim,
i could only make sense
of abhorrence clinging onto my head."

every time
i wear my heart on my sleeve,
misery emerges
from the shadows
and torments me --
i cannot be
liberated from
the never-ending loop of misfortunes.

i yearn that these
bitter emotions
diminish into nothingness
until not even an iota of thought
could mar me.

i yearn that these
senseless cluster of letters
find their way back to you--
just as it should be.
mercury retrograde
Apr 2019 · 165
PLAY PRETEND
nadine shane Apr 2019
id like to think
that you never left

id like to think
that i didnt hear the reverberation of the door
closing in on the two of us.

ive made a fort
out of unwanted memories
i desperately try to keep at bay
but they keep on calling out to me like it was a graveyard
reaching for victims
bewitched by consternation

broken mirrors,
mangled sheets,
drive thrus in the ungodly hours, awkward silences,
cut outs of what we shared together —

those things
could never compare with
how i feel so at home
with another being's body before

all my life,
all i ever did
was give such tumultuous love
and receive none of it back.

so id like to pretend
even though
i am constantly marred by reality.
sad hours
Apr 2019 · 232
IN SILENCE.
nadine shane Apr 2019
i have learned to love in silence —
eyes no more than just a glance,
arms engulfing my frail stature,
fingers grazing your flesh,
lips knitted tightly
so not to speak of
how irrevocable i could love.

this quaint affection which i give to you
was returned by no more than
just hushed confabulations and regret.

and so i learn to love in silence —

for you are much more of an art from afar
that i do not dare wish to taint you
with my mere nothingness.

for i cannot speak of
how i would toss and turn
in the dead of the night,
wishing of what could have been;
how i am besotted with your existence painted in bright and vibrant tints.

loving in silence
had become a matter
that my heart is wont to do

and not an ounce of surprise
rushes to me when i hear nothing
but the soft zephyr.
the cicadas cried, so did i.
Mar 2019 · 976
cry wolf
nadine shane Mar 2019
there was a girl who cried wolf;
it echoes from the hollows of crevices
until it inevitably comes back to her --
it only welcomes her with silence.

and i stand there and watch
as she continues to cry wolf.

the river -
gushing, flowing, full of life -
it stops to listen to her wishes.

the wind -
withdraws from crafting a tempest
and stills.

planted in my own roots,
i sit and hear her howls of desperation.

now, sans woe bellows
from her sunken cheeks,
frail body clad in loneliness.
a ghost of a smile
marrs her rose-colored face.

"liberated," she said, "i wish to be liberated."
silence comes back to greet her.
Jan 2019 · 1.1k
love, icarus and the sun
nadine shane Jan 2019
this is what it feels like to love you;

its almost as if
im a meager child
waiting by the windowsill,
leaving parts of myself
i thought i didnt need anymore,
yet as days and nights flash
before my eyes,
i wonder if this is how
i dreamt to be
when i tuck myself to sleep.

its almost as if
im walking in the darkness
with nothing to guide me
but my own foolishness,
grasping at any broken material
just to keep me from falling —
yet much to my own dismay,
i lie here in the cold floor –
mangled and barren.

and i ponder;

is the universe
trying to keep us together
or apart?

this is what it felt like to love you;
just as how icarus loved the sun.
too besotted.
Aug 2018 · 391
epiphany of sirens
nadine shane Aug 2018
when i am with you,
i feel
particles of myself
slowly sweep away
until
i am no more
than an empty entity
of existence.

instead,
i am
a melancholic siren;
consternation constanly emerges
from the salty ocean
i baptize myself in
to rid myself
of the blood of agony
on my lips.

sailors enchanted
by the wicked melody
i speak of;
eyes closed shut,
listening closely to
the languages
my mouth formed;
demise imbuing
their eyes
for this sonata
is bewitching yet atrocious.

yet you pay
no heed
to my woes,
even after the
nights transitioned
into light years;

i call for you,
you dare not
look back at me;
for i looked
just like everybody else,

just another
mistaken identity.
z, this one’s for you.
Aug 2018 · 627
two on two
nadine shane Aug 2018
yearning for something
i desire;

what lies beneath
the ivory duvet
when the rays of the sun
spares a shy glance
around the nook and cranny
of your room;

hands aching
to lace around yours;
waiting to taste sweet you,
bitterness slowly creeping
up to its own demise,
this is why the maidens
sung their hearts out
to accompany
the grieving tremors
that shook the faulty edges
we had built,
atop of guilt and uncertainties.

flustered sheets scattered
on the floor,
pieces of myself
i can no longer get back to
whilst a gaping hole
greeting my own eyes
held a fragment of truth and silence.

( this is not my home;
this is the apparition’s
treacherous threshold. )

yearning for something
i lost;

the warmth of your embrace,
contrasting with the
glare of the sun
pouring down on me,
easiness could never
give justice to you;

sly brushes of lips against my skin,
as if chanting
bohemian chants
all over me
to get out of this
witchcraft that we call love;

longingness in your eyes,
a renaissance painting
in front of you,
begging to feel
the constellations
in your hands
cascading through
every vein in me.

still, i feel something coil
deep inside me,
were you truly mine?
again, you fill me with doubts.
Aug 2018 · 616
weariness.
nadine shane Aug 2018
i am tired
of waking up
in the middle of the night
at the sound of
my skin tearing itself apart,
i can no longer remove
the stamp of
your lips and hands
off me;
my sides splitting open
so my scars ensconced
deep beneath the surface
can tell the story
of how i fell for you.

i am tired
of staying up
with nothing but
the company of the moon,
awaiting for its eclipse,
blinking away
fragments of what we had —
filled to the brim
with adoration —
although fleeting.

memories of
how you held me —
only distant.

again,
the clock chimed
unforgivingly,
reminding me
of late night drive throughs
around the crevices
of my wreckage of thoughts —
spilled and separated;
full of you,
only you.
(until now)

milky boy!
Jul 2018 · 752
ungodly hours
nadine shane Jul 2018
a distinct feature
in my appearance
would be
the bags under my eyes;

i remember staying up
until my bones quiver
under the bewitching spells
of the moon’s forgotten raving sonatas,
enticing enough to cradle
an iota of dejected sentiments
from centuries and centuries ago.

i remember looking up
at the night sky
until my eyes flicker from dust to ashes,
burning the crevices of every wall i built,
graveyards broken down
to match the unmatched
bleakness of the ignominious sorrow
peeking out of the corner of your soles.

i remember laying down,
not once had silence became overbearing
that i could hear the faintest brush
of a weightless feather falling
from a tainted nest,
aching to meet its pernicious lover.

i remember closing my eyes,
shifting everything elsewhere;
still, i dread the feeling of compunction
emerging deep from
the landmines of mistakes
that i had claimed as my home
and my shelter.

but this, i could never forget:
i remember
being envious of you;
how you do not
lay awake at night,
wondering if things
could have been better.
i still love you (always)
Jul 2018 · 3.0k
toffee
nadine shane Jul 2018
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.

there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.

there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.

with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
and waited some more.
Jul 2018 · 117
ellipsis
nadine shane Jul 2018
we were contained in an ellipsis,
desperately aching for
delicate strings of words
uttered by ghastly and shallow mouths.

  we were contained in an ellipsis,
the silence
cradled the proximity
of the entangled messes
of our universe.

this was us.

this was our ellipsis,
it never seemed to end.
silence.
Jul 2018 · 186
capricious
nadine shane Jul 2018
you told me
love was a capricious thing
that could only hurt
those who beseech for more
than what they ought to have.

and then
i saw you in the arms
of another.
alas, the irony of it all.
May 2018 · 1.1k
i woke up next to you again
nadine shane May 2018
i woke up next to you again,
red wine lips
slightly parted,
a contented sigh
escaping out
of crushed cherries.

the night is still young,
you had said,
a lopsided grin
crawling its way
to your sinful mouth
speaking in dead languages.

( do not lie to me, darling )

i woke up next to you again,
eyebrows furrowed,
small hands traveled to mine,
soft whilst never unwavering.

you begged me to stay,
never letting go of the
edges of my shirt.
insides stirred,
i watched you in awe
as you pat the spot
next to you.

( just this once, i let you do as you please )

i woke up next to you again,
gaze already set
on my visage.
a lazy smile and a kiss
greeting me.

this was love,
you had thought
but you were
wrong.

( tonight will be the last, mi amor)

i woke up next to you again,
clothes tattered and torn,
lifeless eyes greeting me,
sheets splotched
with regret and blood.

grief and love
are no such thing.
prey  and a predator
Mar 2018 · 288
tell me, tell me
nadine shane Mar 2018
i can be whatever
you want me
to be,

i can be the waves
crashing down
to the shores
to find solitude
in your arms,
aching to seek everything
i can never truly have;

i can be the treacherous current,
sweeping you away
from the palms
of pandora's box,
reaching out
to lay their mouths
( shut / stitched / knitted )
filled with tribulation.

i can fold myself
into neat edges,
abandoning every ghost town
i conquered
and called mine,
every window sill
attached with symbiosis
and laced with piles of
'sorry' and 'forgive me.'

i can be metaphors
clinging around every part of you,
wishing to be liberated
from reveries
accompanied with memories
of how you held me
with qualmy and shivering hands.

so tell me
because
i can be
whatever you
want me to be.
so please dont leave me again
Feb 2018 · 250
fiction
nadine shane Feb 2018
this is
fiction
and nothing else.

you and me,
twisted by pretty words
with senseless meaning.

laying down,
restless nights,
tranquil walks
with sober souls.

holding your hand,
a four leaf clover
stretched onto yours,
you kissed mine.

waiting for the howl
of misfortunes,
i clung onto
your kaleidoscopic smile,
you stayed.

but,
time and time again,
this is fiction
and nothing else.
don't let it fool you, i've been there.
Feb 2018 · 601
chaos of longing
nadine shane Feb 2018
how foolish of me
to think
late night conversations
could lead to
a sterling amount of love
cascading through me

but all it ever left
was a gaping hole,
stretching itself beyond
to greet the bane's den.

the neverending loop;

stuck-up little poet
thinking it would be
different,
poor little heart;
it had suffered enough,
let it rest.

little girl calling herself
a poet would like to know
what to do
with these memories
of warmth
from her
sun-kissed hand.

« no, no »

how stubborn of me
thinking
i could no longer be
time's fool.
im sorry. i love you.
Feb 2018 · 220
memoir of a bereavement
nadine shane Feb 2018
to love only from afar
is a matter of hearts
begging to touch the other,
clad in drops of daylight,
mysteries of the night
as it calls upon
the dreary apparitions.

reaching out to grasp
nothing but the cold breeze,
the chimes of the forgotten fossils
of how we could have been.

you craft harmony
and rhapsody
with the way
you immesh your hands
with dust from the stars,
scraping against the sky.

this is poetry;
in its entirety,
soft and weak,
accepting as it goes;
made by the sound
of a blemished
and careworn heart
from heartbreak.

this is the
"could've"
this is for you.
Feb 2018 · 228
this moment
nadine shane Feb 2018
the melted horizon
climbed upon your starry eyes,
i want nothing more than
being greeted
by your heavenly structures.

“from this moment,”
from the gentle breeze
of four a.m.,
your arms around me
never letting go,
the soft humming of your breath
against every little secret
that i had made.

“to this point in time,”
heated arguments,
saturnine interims,
moments i wish
i could take back.
(take it, take it all back)
nadine shane Jan 2018
maybe this is
all just a film.

an indie film
starring troubled teenage girls
finding out who they truly are;

a horror film
starring an ex-convict
being haunted by
his petrifying past;

a romance film
with cringy punchlines,
sly glances in the hallways,
passing notes during sessions,
a wink or a two.

this,
what we had,
was no more than
a documentary.

the brusque strokes of color
writing the art of detaching one's heart
in a single streak,
overwritten by harsh
and rash decisions,
regret bursting
through the air,
the feeling of being torn apart
by the swaying wind,
whispering,

the curtains
finally closed.
a bittersweet moment.
nadine shane Dec 2017
the universe has a daft manner
of reminding me of
you.

your voice resembles the breeze
that blows during the ungodly hours
and i realize that
the mists and fogs
just want to deceive us with
empty promises
and fulfilling lies.

your eyes spoke of the way
the moon danced with the stars,
a secret affair with the sun.
they take in every detail;
from the freckles
that adorned my face
to the scars
that still crept into my heart.

your hands clasped onto the meteors
but you were too unforgiving
and the galaxies sent you away from me
to scatter along the heavenly bodies
and await for rebirth.
i cannot get rid of you.
Dec 2017 · 392
twenty-seventh
nadine shane Dec 2017
december twenty-seven,
your name still rings
from the atrophy
you had bestowed upon me.

how reckless,
the way i love with
trembling fingers
guiding you to every
isolated destinations
withering through every touch.

i could not speak,

for your eyes
spoke of the
inaudible string of utterance
i could not quite decipher.

december twenty-seven
how forlorn,
the way you left me
without an explanation.
thus, i hated the twenty-seventh.
Dec 2017 · 273
from death
nadine shane Dec 2017
when the outline
of your lips
brushed against
mine,

it molded perfectly
like its sole purpose
was to be with each other.

but when i was left
with nothing but the cold
and harsh breeze of november,

your kiss left me
writhing in pain,
bruises marked my skin,
a gamut of unfortunate events;

it was a
kiss from death.
i hope he kisses you not
Dec 2017 · 486
heartbreak
nadine shane Dec 2017
i do not wear
heartbreak well.

i dress it
in plaid skirts
and loose shirts
under
cheap make-up.

i keep it
hidden in between
the pages
of a horror story
that you showed
abhorrence for.

i write it
in forms of sonnets
that overcome the
acrimonious ways
your words found themselves
tangled with mine.

i say it
in jumbled thoughts
and incoherent murmurs
that clouds memories
of warmth and sunlight.

forsooth,
heartbreak
does not suit me.
but i am heartbreak's agenda.
nadine shane Dec 2017
i am
a confusing person.

i may
love things
that i hate;

i may
hate things
that i love.

sometimes
i adore the sun setting
and i close my eyes
as the sun drapes itself
with dust and memories.

then
i despise the way
the sun rises
with false anticipation
for children chasing them,
desiring to touch
even a glint of gold
and sunlight.

but i try not to love
the way your crooked smile
makes everything look
endearing.

because
i am afraid
that i will soon learn
to hate it.
please do not make me adore you.
Dec 2017 · 245
the.warm.wind
nadine shane Dec 2017
the warm wind
of the
fourth of july
rested on the
arch of your back
after a
precarious tempest.

the cicadas
cried,
so did you.
a plethora of unhappiness.
Dec 2017 · 205
the.falling.leaves
nadine shane Dec 2017
the falling leaves
rustling,
brushing the
wind;

i finally
felt
at ease.
after a long time.
Dec 2017 · 190
silence
nadine shane Dec 2017
you stand
beside
each other,
gazing
at the
inertness of
her body.

there is
beauty
in words unspoken

for their
silence
held the
entire universe.
their own universe.
Dec 2017 · 265
of love
nadine shane Dec 2017
it is the rattling of
the picture frames
that you kept hidden
in the back of your mind,
hanging against the
apricot wall;

it was the tremor
that shook every
glass windows
of your body;

the distant knocks
of strangers
you met in your
past life;

it will hurt you
but you still relish
on the feeling of compunction
seeping onto
your delicate bones;

it will come unexpected,
meeting you at every rendezvous

and you welcome it
with warmth and
joie de vivre.
[ and of hate ]
Nov 2017 · 1.4k
peter pan
nadine shane Nov 2017
you were
peter pan.

and i was
‎wendy.

you were always seeking
for the intricacies of
compunctious realities,

that you considered
the one standing before you
as a vestige of existence.

and when i finally let you go,
you still searched for
the great mishaps.

afterall,
you were
peter pan.

and i am merely
a surfeit of mirrors
that reminded you
to grow up.
you refused to let go of youth.
Nov 2017 · 168
rosetti
nadine shane Nov 2017
destruction is
a form of creation

your restless body
carried all the burden
that perplexed souls left you,
shackled with disdain
all alone.

the reverberating sounds
of gaiety tugged around
the edges of your
curled lips
but you still wear
heartbreak and misery
as your identity.

your autobiography
consisted of polaroids
of people who
left you jaded.

yet you let the feeling of love
cascade down your throat
even if it left you
still gasping for breath.
for rosetti.
Nov 2017 · 185
incongruity
nadine shane Nov 2017
you only said you loved me
when you were lonely;

you were scared of
feeling even a tinge of loneliness circulating inside your body
so you impulsively go out
during late nights
to search for love
in befuddled men.

you only said you hated me
when you were inebriated;

you were scared of
feeling even an ounce of happiness
surging through your veins
so you look at yourself
in front of the shattered mirror,
who pitied you
for ululating constantly.

your flagrant atrophy
shouts your
malapropos name
across the hearts
worn on every sleeve.
you always wore a facade of mirth and dysphoria.
Nov 2017 · 183
nico
nadine shane Nov 2017
she looked at every
arch of colors
with so much fascination
that her seamless doe eyes
became one with the
unification of the splashed canvas;

she held his hands
with so much gentleness
like she was holding
a small piece of origami,
crafted by sturdy hands
but fragile hearts,
weeping ever so slightly
at the sight of the
sun coming back up
even after the nights it said
goodbye.

she was an explosion of colors,
all at once,
that was always
too good to be true.
goodbyes hurt you a lot but you still waited each time, nico.
Nov 2017 · 169
lamentations
nadine shane Nov 2017
sometimes
my body betrays me;

i try to form words of consolation
in my mouth

but it knits itself
into anger
i am blinded in;

i desire to dance just
beyond death's fingerprints

but i am shackled
with life's endless waltz.

i do not weep for
what had been lost

but for
what is to come.
we wrote our lamentations on thin walls.
Nov 2017 · 182
sober
nadine shane Nov 2017
maybe i drank too much
because i dreamt that
you held me in your arms
with so much love and adoration
like it meant something to you,

and then i became
sober
it was just a dream, after all.
Nov 2017 · 186
malevolence
nadine shane Nov 2017
serendipity is not
the word to describe the
two of us;

we desperately tried
to fill the empty spaces of
our non-pareil hearts

like jigsaw pieces
adamant on forming an image
but not knowing that
they are not meant
for each other.

malevolence is
the word to describe the
two of us;

we hid the screams
under the ivory duvet,
complimenting the bruises
the two of
us had carved

like a stubborn mule,
we still keep on coming back
to each other.
confusing love with aggression
Nov 2017 · 173
the one thing
nadine shane Nov 2017
i never got tired of how you wake up in the middle of the night,
carefully walking out of the room
and taking a clandestine peek
again back inside.

complimenting the moon and the stars were a constant thing for you
during the unholy hours;
they shine ever so brightly,
illuminating the tears you had shed
when you told me what your
biggest regret was.

you loved everything
that didn't love you back and
maybe that's why you get so attached
to anything that kept you
above the treacherous waters,
preparing itself to engulf you
in an endless
mirrors of conundrum.

i never got tired of how you sleep with the lights on
for you hated the portentous silence
that lingered and never
seemed to leave.

but you were a paragon of paradox,
contradicting everything you speak or
do. i do not have a firm grasp on
what you really
intend to say.

and perhaps,
that was the one thing i
got tired of.
just because.
Nov 2017 · 231
uncertainty
nadine shane Nov 2017
he said to you on a friday afternoon,
a cup of coffee
held by hands
which dilapidated
on top of
deific disasters;

“promises are meant to be broken,” whispering,
like he did not want you
to hear the inner war cry
he kept on using
at nights he stayed awake,
only his thoughts as a perfect company
as he keeps a conversation
only the moon and him
know the existence of.

when you reached out to hold his hands
that were painted in shades of blue and grey,
it felt like forever
since your hands brushed
something so eloquent
even after the ungodly hours
he still called his decisions as mistakes,

or when he promised you
that the grandeurs of life
are crushed into smithereens
on his sturdy palms,
not telling you about the stubborn apparitions
refusing to let go
of everything it once held dear;

when he flipped through the pages
of a worn-out scrapbook
like it was your
place of solitude,
staring at each snapshot longingly;

when he promised you that
he, too, would not let go
even after the nights
he calculated the
possibility of you leaving him;

when he told you
that he was a troubled painter,
sketching the familiar taste of dysphoria
dawning over him every time
he was told he was onerous;

when he promised you that
he would finish every painting
but he kept each canvas hidden
under the floor boards.

you told him on a saturday morning,
a cup of tea
held by puckish hands
which built walls
around everything
your little heart desired,

“then, why make them?”
i had to rewrite this piece a lot of times bc i didnt like how i ended it each time but woOps, here it is.
Nov 2017 · 208
sans
nadine shane Nov 2017
you do not smile in portraits
because you are terrified
of your own unwavering gaze
staring
back at you;

the blemished sentiment of
happiness younger than the spark of noon diminished into an infinite pail
of abyss filled to the brim with
unforgiving despair clanking like
clumsy church bells.

you are reminded that you are
nothing but a vessel,
prevaricating questions that have etched long enough onto your skin,
emaciating the fragments
of existence that you
desperately clung onto.

you are reminded of the time a boy
whispered he loved you as if he meant it but the glaring reflection of your dismal eyes crawl on your back,
drowning the shrieks in an
ocean of happiness you cannot
indulge yourself in.

a storm of consternation submerged
from the empty hallways
of vintage photographs.

sans hope;
sans love;
sans everything.
it got messy at the end but heY i still like it
Nov 2017 · 202
you
nadine shane Nov 2017
you
you always had an affinity for the complexities of life,
clutching onto precarious thresholds
that you vehemently
refuse to call
a bereavement

you always had an affinity for
bodies of matter that refuse to take
care of you back,
an abundance of saturnine
sentiments is what you are
made of

you always had an affinity for
convoluted recidivism
that always seemed to mar
the ineffable reverie
constantly buzzing in
your head

you always had an affinity for
a jargon's mouth,
wanting to emblazon the
sporadic tribulation along
the interstices of your
deleterious wreckage

you always had an affinity for
everything quintessential
that your reticent heart
can glom.
this is a mess tbh
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