on the loneliest of nights
the cicadas filled the silence

and when they go away
the thought of you sinks back in

love is clumsy
love is loud

and if this isn’t love
why can’t i hear anything else other than you

silence siphoned slow breaths
from the stale closets
of which were my lungs

my body keeps memory hostage
it severs nostalgia
from my limbs

severs love and everything beautiful
from my fists
and yet, i am still trying so hard not to let go

i am holding onto nothing
that seems like something
worth holding onto, just for a little while

sometimes, i leave pages blank
for all the poems i have yet to write
all the words i am still figuring out
how to pen down

i am a bad poet
because i do not truly know
how to feel anything

and every metaphor before and after this
are desperate attempts to feel something more

prolonged insanity kept at its barest minimum
will cause unascertained depth among the sanest

time forgot about me
so it went about its day
just like every other day

time forgot about me
so i showered in song
bathed in the rhythm of water

time forgot about me
so i fell into the chasm of a book
hooked onto the beauty of text

time forgot about me
so i sunk into a sea of soft oblivion
warm wool filled the spaces between my fingers

time forgets about me
and you
and even itself

on some days
it feels like these hands could write
endless love poems
but can never truly hold love