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3.5k · Aug 2019
hiraeth
fray narte Aug 2019
midnights still find me retracing the moments
that led to our thousand lakeside kisses;
they were secrets left in a summer dream.
each second — a bowline knot
leading straight to our
late night drives
and vehicle breakdowns
and last minute goodbyes
at the break of dawn.

midnights still find me sleeping
next to a shoebox of the books you left;
i still hear your voice
when i read the lines
of your favorite paragraphs
the clock hands, mocking,
leading me through a maze of
memories and parking lot conversations.

midnights still find me rewriting histories
with resin-pressed flowers,
maybe the petals will point to where
i started losing you —
and maybe it's in every direction.
the black, bold numbers have become my crumbs
leading to road trips and
to all the bus stops we missed,
kissing;
now i still miss my stop
without your lips next to mine.

and midnights still find me
writing poems like these
but clearly,
you're too far off
for these words to reach.

and now, midnights still find me wanting you back.
and 'til now, midnights still find you gone.
2.5k · Jun 2019
chances at heaven
fray narte Jun 2019
i’ll waste all my chances at heaven darling — i’ll waste all my chances for the midnights we spent dreaming, stranded inside an old lighthouse as the waves crashed on the shore. i’ll waste my chances for a mouthful kisses, dissolving the gaps between the stars. i’ll waste my chances for a sliver of early morning poems, for sunsets dripping on our skin, for seconds where i can hold your hand — free and unafraid, for minutes where i can be a sinner and you, my capital sin. for hours where i can melt all the world and its hurtful words inside your arms.

darling, i’ll waste all my chances at heaven if i can’t love you way past its walls.

i’ll waste all my chances at heaven — and i’ll waste them all on you.
2.0k · Nov 2019
the things he says
1.9k · Aug 2019
eleanor
fray narte Aug 2019
She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.
1.8k · Jun 2019
Dissociation #6
fray narte Jun 2019
I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.
fray narte Nov 2019
his lips would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons made for coffee and falling apart. he never really kissed with so much intimacy but he kissed me nonetheless, and maybe those were enough — those steady, demanding kisses, until all i'm left with are sighs and shoulders carved with his name. my fingers, lost in his hair, like withered roses catching fire. my lips, swollen and red, like sunsets begging for the night to come home. my heartbeats, carelessly, hastily stitched inside the hem of his sleeves.

but i stayed in his apartment, slept in his bed, and wore his clothes; like an incoherent word misplaced in a haystack, like a poem, half-naked on the kitchen sink, unraveled by the faintest brushes of skin. slow and claiming. fast and rough. he never really held me close enough, tight enough, but he held me nonetheless, and for a while — just for a while, i could pretend that he wasn't the embodiment of all the things i got to hold but could never get to keep.


he never really looked at me with love or with an intensity that burns, but he gazed nonetheless — almost lost and lust-hazed; calculating and restrained, like i was every poetry he wasn't supposed to write but had written anyway. and i gazed back, at my hands resting against steady movement of his chest, at his dim-morning eyes, at the slight part of his lips.

and his lips — i know they would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons, made for coffee and falling apart. and i know that it wasn't love.

it wasn't love,
but it's pretty close.
1.2k · Jul 2019
dissociation
fray narte Jul 2019
my soul is stuck
in old, coastal towns;
a cup of strong coffee in hand;
i can drown in its taste
mixed with my heartbeat running amok.

the sound of the rain
threatens to deform the roof,
as if the midnight sky
was trying
to read her sadness out loud
to the unmarked graves
beyond my ribs;
as if the raindrops
were prison guards
chasing after my soul,
waiting to cage it
back in place.

the broken clock
tells me it's still midnight,
but for all i know,
it may yet be another
sleepless night kinda
monochromatic daybreak
and

i can no longer tell which is louder —
the storm inside my head
or outside.
aiming for that edgar allan poe vibe
985 · Jul 2019
tala
fray narte Jul 2019
Your eyes,
my unveiled soul,
amidst the crowd who looked
but didn’t see —

that’s my favorite way
of being looked at;
that’s my favorite way
of coming undone
983 · Jun 2019
hanahaki disease
fray narte Jun 2019
i can no longer say i love you
without coughing up
a calyx of petals, darling;
a flower,
for every written poetry,
a flower,
for each metaphor for your eyes.
a flower,
for each pillow-talk,
for each time i looked for
your amber eyes in a crowd,
a flower,
for each sunset wish
and each love letter buried
at the end of every song, darling —
a flower, for each time
i say i love you
without trying to say your name —
a flower for each time
i listen
to pareidolias of your voice
mixed
with the pitter-patters of the rain.

just a flower, i thought.

but darling, my lungs are now a garden
of your favorite flowers;

they are now a garden
of all the times
i tried to unlove you
and all the times
i ever failed.

darling, they are now a garden
of all my i love you’s

and all the
i love you too’s
you won’t
ever
say.
977 · Aug 2019
apologies and coming home
fray narte Aug 2019
This is an apology to my younger self
for letting her forget the ixora bracelets
tucked in her tattered notebooks;
for letting her blur the outline of Artemis’ body
resting the edges of a waxing moon.
This is an apology for the poetry
and the songs she tuned out
that could’ve saved her life.
This is an apology for allowing her
to stop hearing the midnight stories
of the souls who get lost in unknown towns
concealed beyond
the gaps in their ribs;
for allowing her to stray too far
from mountain-and-sea sunsets
that she can no longer smell
the salty air
and remember the color
of the twilight skies.

This is an apology for allowing her to fall out of love
with the things she wanted
to stay in love with —
for allowing her to fall out of love
with the things that kept her alive.

This is an apology —
for peeling the tattoo scabs
between the drags on a cigarette,
for sleeping drunk on a pile of ***** laundry,
for wanting to keep
the dreamers in the rye,
and yet falling off the cliff
two pages before the ending.
This is an apology for writing her dreams
in a bottle and throwing it out
into the open ocean;
now those dreams
are nautical miles away,
lost in the domes
of a sunken city.

This is an apology to my younger self
for all the things she wanted to be
that I never became —
and an apology
for all the things I am
that she never wanted to be.

And yet, this too is a promise to her
that it’s okay:
it’s okay to lose yourself
in places you don’t like.
It’s okay to wake up and find yourself
confined in a body
you no longer seem to know.
It’s okay, darling;
someday, you’ll find your way back.

I’ll find my way back.

We’ll find our way back
to who we’re supposed to be.

And it’ll be home.
957 · Jul 2019
asphodel
fray narte Jul 2019
lost souls don't end up in asphodel meadows, honey —
they end up in your apartment;
a messy, poorly-lit place.
or so i did.
our systems filled
with nicotine and other bad ideas
i will for sure regret.

well, truth be told,
you're mine to regret.

well truth be told,
you're not.

but there we were,
flung in a den of frenzied kisses —
skin next to a black hole,
a black hole next to a skin
guess we'll never know which is who.
but tonight break me —

we both know this isn't your
watching-sunset-and-gazing-at-stars
type of love.

so tonight stain me,
and i'll call it a pseudo-romance, darling
and maybe after,
we can smoke cigarettes
or watch the city fall asleep
or stare at each other's empty eyes;
maybe somehow that's more of our style
darling, than staring at the sunrise is.

but at this moment i know,
in this poorly-lit place,
dripping roofs,
***** sinks,
that i will waste my words writing
beautiful poetry for you,
even if i'm not that beautiful myself.

even if you're not that beautiful yourself.

even if we're not that beautiful ourselves.
929 · Oct 2019
mica
fray narte Oct 2019
she was just another poet
who wrote
late night proses
about smoking
ten cigarettes
in one sitting,
and climbing closed gates
at 1 am
and other bad ideas —
bad ideas
like him.
916 · Jul 2019
on masks and pretenses
fray narte Jul 2019
We were always so good at pretending, weren’t we? We would always climb rooftops and pretend that we were stargazers, christening constellations with our favorite songs. Look, there was Somebody Else. There was Nobody’s Home. There was Chasing Cars.

We would pretend we were souls from the 50s, reincarnated into another life — into another happy ending. We would pretend we were art critics, as if we knew **** about Klimt; as if we could tell apart baroque from classical. We would tell each other our weirdest dreams and analyze them, as if we were Freud or something, that misogynistic pig. Oh, you dreamt about us drowning together in the Black Lake? Oh, that means we were gonna have *** tonight, in the absence of the moon. We would pretend that we’ve circled the whole world and that Italy’s got the ******* blandest pizza. We would pretend that we were rock stars, surfing on the crowd.

We would pretend that we’d read the classics. Was that Harry or Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray? Yeah, Hamlet was pretty cool, but who was Ophelia? ******* pseudo-intellectuals, we were. Nonetheless, I loved pretending with you. We loved pretending that the whole world wasn’t crashing down — that we weren’t stuck in this ******* of a small town, and that the world spun for us. We loved pretending that everything would be okay — that we could leave someday without looking back. We loved pretending that our lives weren’t all over the place. We loved pretending that we were the brave ones, that we could **** ourselves by 40 because the world wouldn’t be kind when we’re all old and saggy.

We loved pretending that we were too cool for mental breakdowns and for any kind of feeling. Honey, we loved pretending that we were psychopaths, too voided for love and all that other crap — that we hated clichés, while doing the most romanticized clichés anyway. We loved pretending that this was where the chapter would end, and that we were together in our make-believe ending. We loved pretending that we were the ones who stayed and made it.

Now, sometimes, I would pretend that we did. Other times, it would be me pretending I was all there ever was — that you never were here to pretend with me, and that I was okay. I would pretend that the rooftop wasn’t too high, and that I didn’t need your help to climb — that the company of city lights and the empty space were enough, honey they never were. Honey, I would pretend too that I never missed you. But I did.

I always did. More than that I would ever admit.

I would look at the stars, the ones we named but I guess they all had already fallen to the earth. You said that when you died, you would live in the shooting stars so that you could crash to the earth and come back to me. But it had been more than a decade since the angels took you away and I no longer stargazed, except tonight. And maybe, just maybe, when I would catch a glimpse of a falling star, I still wouldn’t wish that you didn’t chase your meds with *****. I wouldn’t wish that we didn’t find bubbles coming out of your mouth, like they were a part of your soul. I wouldn’t wish that I didn’t see you die. I wouldn’t wish that you were okay; we both knew we wouldn’t have clicked if one of us was happy or okay.

Heaven, hell, we didn’t believe in those. But when a star would fall unto my chest, I would wish that wherever you were right now or wherever you would be in the next life, darling, you would no longer feel the need to pretend.

And with no lies, no masks, no pretenses, I loved you. Here. And in the next. And in the lives after that, until we lived in one where we would both have the courage to abandon all pretense and just sit on a different rooftop, sharing silence — sharing honest thoughts — sharing the luster of distant stars. And tomorrow, our demons wouldn’t rise with the sun. And we would be okay.
853 · Aug 2019
hilario
fray narte Aug 2019
I wish you told me that wounding my knees was a part of the joy and that my hair already looked perfect in waves, and that bedtime stories weren't lame. I wish you told me these when I was a kid, instead of giving me the cliche ******* — those spilled stories over spilled beers about how you were forced to marry Mom instead of that girl named Beth.

We were caught in a story, the one with that school money thoughtlessly flung on the floor, road trips arguments and drunk-driving over eighty, and nonexistent goodnight kisses and hugs. As a kid, I believed those were the indicators of affection and love. But they're not and had I known that earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who walked all over my mental health
with someone who took me on a desk and spit knives in his drunken slurs,
with someone who dialed another girl's number while thinking I was asleep,
with someone who only dialed my number while he thought his girl was asleep,
with someone who faded in the curtains after he saw my razored wrists,
with someone who said I was his ***** and called it his idea of love.
Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have trusted men who hurt me just as you had. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who had a ****** up notion of what love was. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who was exactly like you.

Dad, had I known earlier that abuse wasn't supposed to be confused with love, I would have stayed alone.
797 · Jun 2019
the sun
fray narte Jun 2019
and tonight, we no longer walk under the dripping yellows of the moonlight —
for the moon, it comes in phases.

but who i am, and who you are, and who we love
do not.

and tonight, we are made of half-darkness and half-stars borrowed from the night skies
but tomorrow, the colors of the daytime
will wash away the relics of this night

and darling, we’ll come out like the sun.

we’ll come out like the sun.
762 · Jul 2019
neptune storms
fray narte Jul 2019
there's a reason for all the midnight cigarette breaks in the fire escape while hoping my mom won't smell the smoke. there's a reason for every uneven haircut; products of sleeplessness or stagnation or something i no longer understand. there's a reason for the paperbags of dysphoria and cheap bourbons lying untouched beneath my bed, and for the days when my bed felt like home and home meant emptiness and emptiness was preferable to my favorite song or to the scent of the beach. there's a reason for letting go of all the obvious lifelines and deliberately sinking into this disarray of black holes. but you breathe marigolds and sunlight dipped in bottled petrichors

and tonight, i no longer know how to translate my storms into a weather you can understand.
754 · Jan 23
creatures of the night
fray narte Jan 23
it's an all too familiar, all too ironic situation —
knowing safety, softness —
lingering tastes off darkness' tongue,
now trailing down our skin.

the dark has taught us that
safezone is having the night skies
perched around us
and the moon rises from every touch, slipping,
from every kiss, ending;

and yet, how can something so dim, so obscure
remind me of the sun and its clarity?
darling, these rendezvous have taught me that
you are the lovechild of the night and the day
and i am likened to a vampire
whose fatal flaw is its
longing for the sun.

oh, to see you,
touch you,
kiss you

in the daylight

without burning.
without hiding.
without fears and pretenses.




and yet, we can only be in this all too familiar, all too ironic situation;
we can only be, in the safety of the nightfall —
we can only be, darling, in safety of the dark.
745 · Jun 2019
Rainclouds
fray narte Jun 2019
I no longer dance
under a raincloud of poems
but if you let me,
I’ll pull you
under every tiny bit
of cloud I find
and we can dance under them;
our sadness,
condensing into raindrops —
our façade,
melting with the petrichor —
as if a downpour of words
will wash away
the bruises and scars
and baptize our soul anew.

a clean slate;

like the soil after the storm,

like leaf patterns that
know happiness

like a summer day,
reborn.
695 · Jul 2019
wait for me
fray narte Jul 2019
wait for me
on the concert grounds
of the bands we don’t even listen to;
wait for me
‘til you find yourself
singing to the second verse
of a rock song
you hear for the first time —
that one is gonna be our song, darling.

wait for me
in old malls and museums
people no longer come to;
wait for me on the forgotten stairs
'til you see my ragged old skool
and my bad, orange hair
parting the crowd
to give you my bear hugs.

wait for me
in coffee shops that play
my favorite songs;
wait for me with that
black coffee in hand
'til i arrive an hour later
to appease you with
kisses that smell like subways
cause they’re what
i give best.

wait for me
in busy, city streets
valleyed by nameless
skyscrapers;
wait for me in strangers’ cars
at 5 am 'til a sunray
hits my face a meter across
from where you are.

wait for me
by the shore,
where promises are lost
in the sea spray;
where the starless skies
can watch me drown
in the scent of your hair
when the sea is right before us.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer have to say
our i love you’s
through calls and texts
but in front of each other.
wait for me until
you no longer find
an “i have to go” note at three am
but my arms,
wrapped around your body
and my lips
planted on your neck.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer miss each other
more often than not,
and until the only waiting
we’ll do
is you, waiting for me
to get off work,
and me, waiting for you
to wake up.

wait for me until the moment
you find me
there,
next to you;
wait for me until
your home becomes my home,
and until all we’ll have
to wait for
are delayed flights
and underrated movies to start
and dishes served late
and our hand, finding each other
instantly after seconds
of being away.

wait for me darling —
wait for me until i’m there
forever,

and until we no longer
have to wait.
624 · Jul 2019
lifeline
fray narte Jul 2019
I've spilled your name
and my feelings
on fallen lashes
and wishbones.
I've read 1950s
love letters and wondered
if we would've had
exchanged some
had we lived that time.
I've stayed up late
in air-conditioned rooms;
a ****** for midnight voice
between your broken smiles.

But boy, this isn't
a confession of how
enchanted I am of you.
This is just me realizing that
somehow,
you can make a dismal world
look a little less messed up;
god, you're beautiful for it.

This is just me realizing that
I can stay with you
for all the reasons
they left you for.

This is just me realizing that
I can fall for you,
so, so deep,
if allow myself.
and feel like I was falling to the clouds.
Boy, this isn't love,
but somehow, it's so much more.

This is a saving grace
wrapped in chipped nails
and stories that make you feel
more human.
This is a silver lining.
This is chance.
This is light,
This is hope
for damaged people
like us.

This is us —
surviving.
This is us —
living.
621 · Jul 2019
Robyn
fray narte Jul 2019
I have a bad habit
of falling for
messed up people.
Maybe it’s because
my own sadness
recognizes theirs.

So darling, let's fall in love

and apart.
605 · Jun 2019
i fell in love with a poet
fray narte Jun 2019
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that only the heartbreak is good enough
to qualify as poetry.
all the roller-coaster rush
and the picnics on the hill
and the first time your hands brush together
on your first date and they take yours
to fill the gaps between their finger,
and the aimless walks looking for
somewhere to eat
and the first time they said i love you
but it wasn’t perfect
so they’d written you a poem
because that seemed closer
to perfect
than those three words —
somehow, at some point,
all of these gets overlooked
like words in a history book
he wouldn’t read even if he was stuck with it in a dream.

the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that it is falling in love with a stranger
who writes poetry at 8 am or 10 pm, hoping
to find his lover back in front of him
when he reaches the last word and raises up his head.
it is falling in love
with someone whose walls seem to echo
the first time they said i love you
three years ago,
it is falling in love with someone
who could still be writing about the love of his life
and sometimes, the consonants
in her name
look like the
vowel in yours
but it’s not you, honey,
sometimes,
it’s just
not you.

he said i shouldn’t mistake
falling in love with his words
for falling in love with him,
so i thought
how could that be, when his words
were the words i wanted to kiss?
how could that be, when he was
the poetry i wanted to read?

one time,
i asked him if he would write me a poem
if he ever fell out of love.

and he said he would never fall out of love.

and he did.

without any warning —
without any melancholic farewell,
or messy kisses on the kitchen floor,
or desperate pleads for us to stay.
he fell out of love with me —
without writing any heartbreak poem;

but then again, maybe it was because
all heartbreak poems, even if it was us falling apart,
would still be written for you.

the night he left,
he forgot to take his poetry collection
all written in the tattered pages
of that black notebook i got him,
and it was full of pages folded in halves
and it was full of your name in lazy scribbles
and it was full of his words
wanting you back.

it was the night we broke up
yet it was still you, breaking his heart —

it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
he loved me.
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
i was you.
An attempt at a spoken poetry piece
572 · Oct 2019
this is the red flag
fray narte Oct 2019
darling, loving me is falling apart with octobers and kissing your poems goodbye. it is watching autumns unfold while slipping into the tracks of a freight train. i will kiss your skin, all chapped lips and sweetened cigarettes, my hands on your neck, as if feeling the walls of an athenian ruin. i will be every distinctive silhouette in a film, every line in a song, every secret spilling gracelessly off your lips before you catch yourself. i will set you on fire and you will burn; all wide-eyed and irises made of the storm, beneath my feather light touches.

i have a proclivity for breaking hearts and you will find yourself neck-deep in whirl of heartbreaks and headlights — all moonstruck and confused. i will break you — destroy you, bit by bit, in the most elaborate, exquisite way, that you will know one thing, darling —

chaos has a tendency to look beautiful.
550 · Feb 2
persephone and hecate
fray narte Feb 2
I. Persephone

Naive girls don't make good lovers
but I will sink into the comfort
of your clementine lips, grazing,
staking claim on my skin —
an offering to your kisses made of molten lead,
oh, how surely, how gently they trail,
like a river following its memory lane.

And yet, I have apologies etched on my skin;
I am a poem that bruises quickly
like petals on the soil.
So much for being the goddess of spring
when all I have are wildflowers
and moans scattered on the sheets of the dusk.

We know naive girls don't make good lovers
so cast me, Hecate, into firelight
where all your daughters burned.
Strip me of this sundress;
my chest was half of Demeter's softness
and half of the underworld's wrath.

And yet, I, too, am made of papercuts
forged to look like carmellia buds
lost and slow dancing in broad daylight,
your hands on my waist —
a quiet breath,
a delicate touch:

such curious ways of coming home.
Naive girls, they don't make good lovers
but I will pick you stray sunlights and goldenrods —
leave them by your bed;
these sheets know that
I belong to no throne.
I belong to no man.

And they say that naive girls don't make good lovers,
but only just;
darling, your walls are an eyewitness
to your gaze and my corruption.

So much for innocence
now neck-deep in mildew and anomalies.
So much for springtime,
its fields, now made
for us coming undone.
And so much for winter, darling —
so much for winter.

It may never come.
532 · Apr 14
some bukowski girl
fray narte Apr 14
she saunters to the room
in white sundress and boots —
some girl bukowski would probably write about.
her heart, stitched to her sleeves,
leaving her chest
smothered with lilacs and cigarette smoke.

how do you know you got embers
that can start a forest fire
when all that matters
is walking straight to the arms
of a storm dressed as another girl —
a girl dressed as another storm
leaving behind casualty after casualty
after casualty
in leaky apartments and hotel rooms.

well,
poets don't tell you how storms kiss —
how they're made of moonlight,
dripping like ether on a sea glass
and before you know it,
your skin is the sea, reaching,
yielding with total abandon
to every curling of the tongue,
to chapped lips and to sighs.

this must be
what 'it' looks like.

then again,
bukowski never really wrote that much about love,
and it's no secret;

her feet are no altars
to offer your poems
and darling,

your lips are not where
storms go to rest.
515 · Aug 2019
petronilla
fray narte Aug 2019
the world will go down the same way it tried to hurt her —
through fire
and she will dance
in the debris.
504 · Aug 2019
object impermanence
fray narte Aug 2019
There's something about falling in love with shooting stars and REM dreams and library books and strangers in the train, whose eyes meet yours for a split second. There's something about falling in love with petrichors that last for half an hour, with the songs you hear without knowing the title, with paper boats under the rain and CDs with scratches, with that person you spent a 5 am with in a desolate park, talking about life and sadness and life — what even is the difference, without ever knowing their name.

There's a nameless feeling, probably something between resigned and bittersweet, about falling in love with temporary things. Maybe it's knowing that I've lost some things forever. It's knowing that I should always learn to let go — knowing that they won't ever come back.

And so won't you. Darling, at least, losing them didn't hurt.
485 · Sep 2019
man-made paradox
fray narte Sep 2019
it had taken bones,
reshuffled and pounded to pieces
fingertips,
scorched
from molding cast irons,
worn, from unsewing and re-sewing heartbeats
and wrists,
white from scarring,
for me not to break
at the slightest touch.
479 · Jul 2019
yellow
fray narte Jul 2019
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then again,
yellow was the color
of the july sunsets we missed
when we were puppeteering
the glitches in our words.
it was the color of autumn —
its night, when we first made out
and left permanent scratches
on the hood of your daddy's car,
its leaves - a deep feuille morte;
detached,
detached,
detached.

like the scent of my hair from yours.

it was the color
of the light —
back when we lived
for early morning kisses
on coffee-stained tables,
when the world was still asleep.
it was the color of the first sunray
that crept through my blinds
after two days of raining —
darling, that was day 4
after you left.

it was the color of the rose petals —
a mess on the floor
as we listened to a bulk
of lonely playlists —
love, it would take corrosive agents
to dismantle the songs —
and probably the memories too,
that unlike you,
refuse

to leave.

but then,
you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.

but then,
it was under the bouts of madness
that he ate the paint,
thinking that happiness could be ingested.

and darling you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
470 · Aug 2019
just a dream
fray narte Aug 2019
sometimes, we all wish for the world to just stop spinning for a while; that we remain sixteen or nineteen forever — just dreaming of painting the marmoris of the sea and seeing it displayed in a museum. just dreaming of browsing bookstores — each book sinking into your effleurage, until you see that cream-colored cover with your name on the spine. just dreaming of hearing a song from a stranger's car, and call it your own. just dreaming of creating stories out of piano keys. just dreaming of discovering a star.

at least, if the world stopped spinning today, a dream can remain as a dream forever. it will never be another thing we messed up. it will never be another dream we lost.
Inspired by Ted's line in HIMYM, "The longer i put off starting my own firm, the longer it can remain a dream and not something i ******* up at."
469 · Jul 2019
sapiosexual
fray narte Jul 2019
my idea of love
is diving headfirst
into the corners of your mind.
467 · Aug 2019
katharina
459 · Jun 2019
Worlds
fray narte Jun 2019
And there are nights when
the weight of missing you
sits on my chest,
so I come out and
look at the dull, blue skylines
and I believe —
I believe that
in a world similar to ours,
we’ll always have the star-mapped skies
and the backseat cuddles
and wallpapers graffitied with our names.
We’ll always have shopping at 4 am
and those strawberry flavored kisses
and each other’s erratic heartbeats
syncing amid horror movies.

And in that world, we’ll always have
summer plans
and library dates
and chess games and black coffees
in the middle of a thunderstorm.
And in that world,
we’ll always have
the paper plane letters
and the eye contacts
and the ‘goodnight, i love you’s
and each other, darling,

and everything else
we lost in this one.
457 · Jul 2019
alice's diary
fray narte Jul 2019
how do you gaze at the rabbit hole in your chest without falling down into it?
inspired by blythe baird's line in her piece "relapse", "i don't know how to talk about the rabbit hole without accidentally inviting you to follow me down it"
450 · Dec 2019
icarus
fray narte Dec 2019
i will pick you a bunch of sunflowers;
each one is icarus,
reborn from falling,
from trying to fly too close to the sun,
each one,
still facing its direction;
maybe it's a sunstruck shade of love, darling.
or maybe it's just a bad case of morning lunacy —

see, each one still has wilted,
each one still has withered,
each one is still a tale
of icarus falling to the earth.
and darling, maybe flying and falling for you
are still habits i'm yet to break.

— to the boy made of sunbeams
444 · Aug 2019
a heart full of apologies
fray narte Aug 2019
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with poetry and writers, and the smell of old bookstores, and of the soil after the daybreak rain. I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with saving people with messed up souls, that I allowed you to stop hearing the stories they tell at midnight when they’re lost in unknown towns concealed beyond the gaps in their ribs.

I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with songs that could’ve saved your life, that I allowed you to walk past the paintings in a museum, and that I allowed you to stop seeing movies that could’ve reminded you of how it feels to feel again. I’m sorry that I allowed you to stop sparing glances at the myriad of city lights in smoggy cities and the spaces between fading pedestrian lanes — that I allowed you to stray far from mountain-and-sea sunsets, and the outline of a crescent moon, and the beauty of conversations that last ‘til sunrise.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, darling.

I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things you wanted to stay in love with.

I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things that kept you alive.
437 · Jul 2019
journal entry #17
fray narte Jul 2019
And I spent years crying over people who could not love me enough, only to realize I was one of them.
428 · Sep 2019
ohio is for sad girls
fray narte Sep 2019
sometimes, she resembles artemis
taking midnight walks
in a sea of moon glint;
her laughter, pale and silvery
as if they are made
of the moonlight itself.
they say that ohio is for lovers
so tonight, she will leave languid kisses
on sadness' flesh and bones;
they are made of all the seas
and all the beds
she has ever drowned in.
but tonight,
she will walk with the moonglades
dancing on the waters of cincinnati,
hand in hand and coming undone,
as the moon rises
from the ghost towns in her mind.

she goes on — treading waters,
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
a flickering shadow of the candle fire,
slowly melting,
the darker half of the moon,
setting in the west,
drowning in the tides.
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
slowly crumbling
to a heap of mess.
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
pallid and gray —

sinking
and sinking
beneath the waves.
fray narte Aug 2019
And how do you tell them you feel so empty without making it sound so sad?
416 · Jul 2019
Noah
fray narte Jul 2019
And maybe one day,
when the storms
are gone
and the sun
shines brighter
and the waves of
self-loathing
ebb and subside,
I’ll run short of sadness
to write poems about.
And maybe then,
I can finally
step out of this ark
Maybe then,
I’ll be okay —
maybe then,
I will be fine.

It's been 40 days and 40 nights.
The rainbow is still
nowhere
to be found.
408 · Sep 2019
khione
fray narte Sep 2019
who's to say she was a girl trapped in her storms —
or a storm trapped in a girl?

nonetheless,
she had been waiting
for the calm to settle after the storm
only to see
it left nothing unscathed.
408 · Jun 2019
sylvia
fray narte Jun 2019
i have a graveyard of letters;
relics dug up from plath’s oven
now, trapped
in the gaps of my ribs,
paper-cutting through the bones;

some are reduced to debris
coming undone like angels,
falling from crumbling buildings —
crumbling minds —
columns that snap
like they’re the threads of my life

nevermind the punctures,
nevermind the fall;
broken spines
and fractured bones —

they all hurt
just the same.

nevermind the metaphors,
nevermind the words;

poetries,

and suicide notes —

they all look
just the same.
408 · Jun 2019
everywhere
fray narte Jun 2019
please, touch me everywhere
it hurts.
touch these 300 cuts,
more or less,
my ribs —
breaking like museum columns,
my lips —
chapped from being sober
for a week.
please, touch me,
until misery feels
less familiar
than happiness.
touch me until deep talks
aren't about dying,
until walking away from life
feels less profound
than walking away
from omelas.

please, touch me everywhere
it hurts, darling;
i want to go through
all my breakdowns
in your arms.

please, touch me everywhere it hurts.

please touch me.

everywhere.
403 · Jul 2019
common denominators
fray narte Jul 2019
There's some kind of emptiness inside your chest, where your heart is supposed to be, and it's sort of similar to the one that's buried in mine.

And maybe we're two halves of that emptiness. Maybe we make the whole. Maybe that's our kind of love.
402 · Jun 2019
pseudo-romances
fray narte Jun 2019
if we're all about
lazy, blanket-cuddles
mixed with Radiohead songs
and missing breakfast
in the morning,

if we're all about playing
Russian roulettes with
our anxiety triggers
and chasing them down
with *****,

if we're all about
untouched calendars
and jokes that aren't funny
and telling them anyway
and not saying
i love you's,

then,
i love what we're all about.
i love not saying
i love you's
with you.
i love this
kind of us.
397 · Jul 2019
jadis
fray narte Jul 2019
I let myself
make sanctuaries
in the crest of your lips;
they were eventually
washed away by the rush
of midnight coffees.
I let myself spell out your name
with the first letters
of my unsent emails
in exchange for a sigh of poems.
I let myself kiss the rims of my teacup
the way I kissed you
two days before you left.
I let myself ignore
the pile of dishes
to trace the tile grouts
that connect to your heartbeat,
and it led to a void
of dismantled veins
and arteries.

I let you
leave the littlest
specks of your scent
on my pillows,
I let you
dance with me
like my favorite sunset hue
danced with the sky
and soon,
the dusk came
and the music notes
and the piano tunes
all faded away.
I let you
write your name
in-between the lines
of my favorite songs
and now all I got
are mixtapes that scream
for you to come back,
darling, as if the cracks in my  voice
and the rips in my lungs
weren't enough.

I let you
sparkle like a big-city-dream
to small-town girl;
let you carve your lies
at the tip of my cigarettes.
I let myself
dream of cuddle nights
and picket-fence
kinda happy ever afters.
I let myself
walk in pj's
and bask in the ruins
of the weekend
that you left.

And darling,
maybe it wasn't because
you didn't love me;

maybe it was because I didn't love myself.
395 · Jul 2019
favorite regrets
fray narte Jul 2019
There was something bittersweet about tangling my arm with yours as we finally crossed (or zigzagged through) the lines that had been blurred for quite awhile now. It was nowhere near a fairytale. Maybe it was something about you being the most beautiful, saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and maybe it was me being drawn to everything sad. Maybe all we had been is a cocktail of alcohol, terminal loneliness, and pent up ****** tensions, brewed somewhere between these nicotine-scented sheets and a series of bad decisions. It’s not love, just wanton desire, I’d say. And you’d agree in the mid of hitched breaths and sloppy kisses. And that was the last thing in our minds before we fumble over the zippers and get lost in each other’s uncharted skin.

Of course deep down, we know that you’re everything that’s bad for me, and that I’m not the type to stay naked in bed the morning after the night to make you pancakes. But the way your lips drugged mine into kissing back, the way we said things we’ll never say when we’re sober, the way there was suddenly too much clothes and too huge gaps between our bodies all seemed comforting and sinfully magical. Of course deep down, we know that we’ll never stand a chance out there doing real-life romance; I wasn’t the one you were looking for, and you were just somebody I found.  But right now, in this cramped apartment with leaky ceilings and creaky floors, all I wanna do before sanity rushes back give in to "**** this", make all the wrong choices, and self-destruct with you.
392 · Sep 2019
realizations, long overdue
fray narte Sep 2019
this is how i'll let you go:

i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.

i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.

instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.
388 · Jun 2019
5:47 pm.
fray narte Jun 2019
And I still know by heart,
the way we breathed
with the sunlight scattering
off the sky,
and the way reds refracted
off your lips, darling
and off our eventual demise,
and the way i stole your first rain-kiss
and you stole it
back from mine.

And I still remember
the letters drenched
in the sea and the summer rain,
and the coffee stains
on unmade beds,
and the coastlines where
we’re yet to stay.

And I still miss the setting sun,
and the saltwater-rush
mixed with regrets
and the mornings we became the sea foams
lit by stars
and cigarettes.

But maybe it’s the sunset’s turn to love you, darling,

and it’s our turn
to set.
387 · Jul 2019
venice
fray narte Jul 2019
writing you poems feels like relapsing into self-destruction
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