Doomed.
What should we tell the windows?
The clamor of dreamers in the dark.
Why, why do we drink?
The notes fly into space, wingless.
What time did you wake up this morning?
Half-moons on your skin and mine.
Where do thrown things go?
Kisses, each one harder than the last.
What was your last class again?
The sheets are blank and twisted.
When did you first hear my voice?
Poems, I have realized, are just hands.
Why did I laugh?
The lamp dies in my neglect.
Why did I keep walking?
Tongues are just invitations.
When am I going to need glasses?
Below your ribs are my truths.
How do you treat bruises?
Indecision to touch you.
How is your sore throat?
Names taste like memories.
How would you describe a mistake?
You stand so close to me.
Where did I find you?
Your back, my back. Old friends.
How do I look at you?
Silence of the weary.
How do you look at me?
The moments choose themselves.
Do you look at me?
Between the spaces is eternity.
What is there to look at?
I have you. Had. Sorry.
Do I look at you?
Van Gogh once wrote in a letter: oh my God, it was beautiful.
Yes.
*Yes.

There is no need for maps,
for guides and milestones –
there is only running.

There is only the thought
of ground and feet
and the heartbeat
of falling soles and strings
meeting the hands of the path
and lifting them in temporary flight
towards ahead, wherever it is,
wherever my knees want
to touch and bend against.

There is no need to go a certain way.

There is only running
and dawn on its way
and its hues cutting
across the sky’s skin
like paintbrushes
with razors for caresses.

There is only running
and muscles singing
and humming the language
of drums and claps and slaps.

There is only running:
wind and lost souls
in every step and inhale,
closer, closer, closer.

This is running.
This is all I want.

I have a feeling that if I chop myself into ****** bite-size pieces in front of them, they will grab the knife and butcher me themselves. They are sure they can do it better. I am, too. When I can no longer hide the fractures and I start crumbling, they will grab a sledgehammer and bury it inside me.

I am proficient at silences.

It turned me into this. It made scales out of my skin, yet for some reason it has also ripped into my flesh. Is it trying to protect me or **** me? It stole the light from my fingertips and the curves from around my tongue. It gave me the power of flight. It strengthened my legs and hardened my feet.

Now I am both safe and dead. I am empty of luminescence and I have razors between my teeth. I fly often these days, most of the time above the clouds.

Now I have strong knees and firmly placed toes. I am good at walking away now.

I can't count the number of times I've blamed it for the things I have left. Over and over, it forces me to make choices I have always refused to make - for good reason.

I can't count the number of times I have walked away because it forced me to, but I remember every single instance when I walked away when I didn't have to.

And until now, I am not sure which was my biggest mistake.

You laugh, and I think:
*this is what I left.

inevitable
that we leave and we are left -
and that we let them.