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we're two storms colliding;
and my lips lie here, in safety and stillness
where yours meet mine;

kisses rush like ether,
like saltwater filling the lungs
and yet, curiously,
i breathe

right here in the eye.

maybe this is helen of troy crossing the aegean sea,
knowing all too well the risks.
maybe this is the start of the trojan war.
maybe this is a greek epic —
untold,
unwritten,
and dissolving in the shores.

and maybe i know all too well the risks.

but some time between
last night's first kiss and
the honesty and the silence of the early mornings

i have become the ocean before the storm
and you, the ocean after it.

and darling, would it be so bad to stay here for a while

in this fleeting safety in your arms,
in this fleeting safety of the calm?
and they say a black hole weighs millions of solar masses; i don't know where that weight comes from. maybe it's from the guilt taken off the shoulders of the primordial gods, or from the chaos of the dying stars, or from the essence of every creature to ever live in this sad, bleak universe, and in the ones parallel to it.

and yet somehow, this celestial phenomenon has found its way inside my skin, and inside yours, and inside everyone's. and in some way darling, we've become the black holes we've learned to tame.
“maybe in another life, louis,” i finally said, staring off at the distant city lights and buildings, feeling the cold creep insidiously into my bones. his name easily rolled off my tongue like a reflex — a muscle memory so deep-seated and yet so strange and unfamiliar now.

silence filled the air and yet, at the same time, it was filled with other things — defeat, heartbreak, resignation, the sounds of vehicles speeding off. the pain gnawing in my gut. the regretful yearning. the need to just be stupid and reach out for his hand. the pain of knowing i couldn’t. the finality of the ending.

and yet, here we stood, too close and too far.

he nodded and stirred lightly, as if preparing to leave. my gaze shifted into his direction. his movements, still slow and graceful, and lit by the moon. it was almost too painful, almost too delicate, almost too poetic. i could still remember what falling in love with him was like. i could still remember him breaking my heart for the first time, until the time where there are no more pieces left to break. and i would’ve done it all again.

he finally spoke, bringing me back to reality. it was almost too soft, too weak, but i heard it.

“maybe in another life.”
Somewhere in these long, midnight drives, somewhere in these litters of I love you's I never said, in the creases of my month-old sheets and in the calls I never made, somewhere between the daybreak and quiet Sunday mornings, between the lamp posts in the streets, between tonight and the first night I knew you, between the sound of hello's, and the sound of things ending for good — somewhere out there, darling, is a place where we've never fallen out love.
she had a darkness in her chest space shuttles hadn't explored.
it was said that stars died there.
6d · 268
icarus
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
so i will lay on your feet a heap of the nightfalls we mangled. i will pick you a handful of hibiscus and cigarette butts left rotting in hotel beds. i will brew and end storms until your eyes are all that's left. i will leave the loneliest love notes and patched up apologies on every curve, every arch of your spine, until you become a book of the musings i cannot hope write. i will cut my chest open and unbridle the black holes i have tamed — darling, i will let them devour all the galaxies but us, until you become the very sun and i, the dull glow of the moon's unlit side.

and you'll know that the vile truth is, i don't know how to love you without getting my heart broken.
Nov 13 · 1.9k
the things he says
fray narte Nov 13
"there were black holes forming inside you, you see — all glorious, all millions of solar masses. so darling, maybe that was the time sighs started to become so heavy."
Nov 13 · 135
journal entry #23
fray narte Nov 13
ah, my wrists — the paper sheets
for the thoughts poetry cannot hope to beautify.
Nov 13 · 120
the nights we abandoned
fray narte Nov 13
the light, its every unsteady flicker
every unfolding beam — it's all just a farce;
at least over there,
in the shadows,
i cannot tell which areas of my skin
are cursed and befouled
and which remain untouched by the blade,
unscratched by my nails;
i cannot read the lines;
written whilst sad and lost,
drunk and sober.
all the wounds,
all the carcasses,
all the living and breathing parts,
all the hints of a vague gestalt —
now all fading,
now all unseen,
now all and entirely swallowed by the darkness.

and in the shadows, i have become finally whole.
fray narte Nov 11
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.
Nov 1 · 231
casualty
fray narte Nov 1
his chest was the ground caving in
in a matter of seconds;
it was the streets' sudden tremors
the wall cracks
and chipped rocks.
his gaze, hauntingly sad,
it was almost inviting.
and i was a girl,
all white dress and wide eyes
not really knowing any better;
steps, too careful
walks, too slow,
tracing the faultlines
misplaced on his skin;

it was an open field —
an open target for the lightning to strike
and leave its marks
and i was just a girl,
looking for poems
where they shouldn't be found;
on the palm creases,
and the curves of his lips.
i walk,
all tentative tiptoes
and a wrong step;
falling into each hollow,
each crevice,
each slit.

he was an earthquake, waiting to happen
seismic and sudden,
taking everything down.

and i — a nameless girl,
an inkblot for face and limbs
a paramour,
a secret,
all wrapped into one.

i — a doorstep kiss,
an uncertain touch,
a bedpost notch,
all wrapped into one.

and i — a jamais vu,
a face in the crowd,
a nameless casualty,

all wrapped into one.
Nov 1 · 130
lenore
fray narte Nov 1
metaphors can't fit
in the distance
between your freckles
and petals made of words
blooming from your lips
don't look like
aphrodite,
born from the seafoam.

your eyes look nowhere
like a map of constellations
sprinkled with
my favorite phrases;
they're not even the color
of my favorite coffee,
or the ink I use
when making my blotched poems.

similes,
paradoxes,
they don't even
run in your veins
or arteries.

and yet curiously,
seeing you still feels
like reading poetry.
Nov 1 · 89
past lives
fray narte Nov 1
maybe in the past life,
we met each other
as the sun and the moon
during the first eclipse.
maybe we met
as the wind and
that mailed letters that flew
out of a messenger's bag.
maybe we met
as the shore and the sand,
and we carved our promises
on tree barks
to meet and fall in love again
here,
in places made of sunsets
behind skyscrapers
and storms that fit
inside these words.

and now,
trees have gone scarce
but i'm carving a new promise
on your lips with my ink:

let's meet again in the next life
and i hope centuries from now,
i'll meet you in the peak
of the ferris wheels;
you were still scared of heights
when we lived our third lives.
i hope i'll meet you
when i look away
after making up constellations
from the first stars that
come in with the dusk.
i hope i'll meet you
in coffee stained shirts
worn in underrated poetry classes.

and in case
we get to read this poem,

i hope can we recognize that
it's written by me.
i hope we can recognize that
it's written for you.
Nov 1 · 118
poems
fray narte Nov 1
i'm so sick of cigarette poems and ***** poems and midnight coffee poems and summer rain poems
and all poems
that remind me of you.


well, they all remind me of you.
Nov 1 · 265
novembers
fray narte Nov 1
It's been a year and the streets are a little brighter, and daybreaks are a little colder, and everyone seems a little happier. But forgetting has become way harder and longer, darling, and Novembers still feel like losing you.
Oct 11 · 361
this is the red flag
fray narte Oct 11
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.
Oct 4 · 233
october, falling apart
fray narte Oct 4
i wish knowing you're not worth the words is enough to make me stop writing about you.

but apparently, it's not.
Oct 4 · 796
mica
fray narte Oct 4
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.
fray narte Oct 4
and i wish i was sad enough or hurt enough or broken enough to actually feel something, and not just emptiness after emptiness after emptiness.
Oct 4 · 160
dickinson
fray narte Oct 4
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;

one for each gravestone in my brain —

different dates
for a single name.

and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,

but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs

and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
fray narte Sep 24
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.
fray narte Sep 23
I know I have been okay for a while now, but it feels odd — not knowing how to handle being okay. I have been held captive by the emptiness — the kind that consumes you from the inside out. I have been that girl, trapped in a skin, and my wrists have become the walls she scratches whenever she tries to escape.

I have fallen apart with sunsets to déjà vus I have long forgotten, and my brain — it has become Eris incarnate and my body — her armless prey, walking willingly into her trap. I have been Ophelia, tiptoeing on a willow tree and drowning in a lake of deep, black butterflies. So being okay and all this — it doesn't feel right at all, and maybe it's possible to despair for sadness. Maybe it's possible to morph with the darkness I thought I wanted to escape. Maybe it's possible to ache for self-destruction with an intensity I've never known before.. I no longer know what's wrong with my brain, but maybe it's possible to feel so lost, so broken, so messed up for so long — that being whole feels like a mistake.
Sep 20 · 128
sticky notes
fray narte Sep 20
I will love the me
that squeals over cat videos
even though she's not
a cat person,
the me that sings
Disney soundtracks
under the shower,
the me that makes coffee
and finally sits down
to read the piled-up books
that were bought last year.

I will love the me
that stays in bed
and eats chocolates
for breakfast after a night
of mental break down,
the me that drinks beer
and shares cigarettes
with tattooed strangers
in a rock concert,
the me that writes
generic poems, hoping they'll
harness the storms
brewed by her brain.


I will love these parts of me —
both the good and the bad,
the breeze and the hurricane,
the gentle rays and the glare.
I will love these parts of me,
equally, completely,
kindly, softly, gently,
with no guilt or shame.
I will love these parts of me
with tenderness, and, patience
and understanding and care.

I will love these parts of me,
the way they deserve to be loved.
Sep 20 · 106
ted and robin
fray narte Sep 20
When I meet the one, it won't feel like a
fairytale laureled with happy endings
walking out of a book and coming to life.
It won't be cherry-kisses and holding hands
while sky lanterns ascend from the ground.
When I meet the one, it won't be about that
"I know that they're the one" the moment our eyes meet;
it won't be it's-worth-writing-a-song-about kinda romantic.
When I meet the one, it won't at all be
about spark and fires
or skipping heartbeats
or slow-motions
or soul recognitions
or true love.

For meeting the one —
it's watching everything we had
collapse into a sinkhole of memories,
and down, down they go — each and every one we made.
Meeting the one —  it's walking away
and away and away, and risking a glance
at your fading silhouette
It's knowing you'll meet yours too,
and knowing it's not me.
Darling, it's coming to terms
with the thought that
the future we planned
is now reduced into a television blur
and spilled beers, drying up way too soon,
and in the end,
it might have been you.
It might have been me.
It might have been us.

And, that's all we'll ever be.
Sep 13 · 119
ted and victoria
fray narte Sep 13
There were midnights when I could still tell you about my dreams. Of course, they were always about us — marvelling at the colors of the sky. With you, standing under the sun and getting lost in the afterglows and collapsing with the black holes sounded romantic. One night, I would dream about reading the books we collected together. Other nights, I would dream of kissing the tips of your lashes inside our blanket forts in terry cloth robes and Birth of Venus and Starry Night socks. Regardless, we would be up at 5 am — you with your whole bean coffee, listening to the tales authored in my sleep.

Except that in my dreams, it still feels like her instead of you. It always does. So tonight, I hope you keep yourself warm and touch the dream catcher tattoo on your nape and not think of me anymore. I know that I'm the reason for your sleepless night and memories dressed in nightmares, but tonight, I hope that you go back to sleep and no longer dream of the love I fabricated. And when it's 5 am, I hope you realize that you need something a little better than my dreams. I hope you brew your coffee to the right strength and no longer look at where I used to sit to tell you my daytime stories. So go back to sleep now. You'll be okay — without the what if's and the dreams and the happy ending written in our name. You'll be okay, darling.

You'll be okay without me.
fray narte Sep 13
So you tell yourself,

don't write about your sadness;
bottle it in
like the forgotten pills
in a medicine kit.
Bury yourself
underneath a bunch of blankets
and hope that the land mines inside you
stay hidden,
just as your scars stay hidden
beneath those bands.

Instead,

write the prettiest, emptiest,
make-believe poems —
nothing about the eclipse
constantly obscuring the sun.
Nothing about the random break downs
that no longer wait
for midnights and 3 ams.
Nothing about the aimless walks
and the piles of books
you can't read
because reading is exhausting
and everything is exhausting.

You tell yourself,

don't write about it, otherwise,
you'll be forced to trade places
with all kinds of sadness
you've secretly been hosting
all this time,
and they'll cut their way out
through the fresh stitches on your chest.
And you'll have to bleed
all over again,
and not just on your wrists,
but on your eyes
and on your legs
and your thighs,
down,
down,
dripping to these words.

So again, you tell yourself,
don't write about your sadness, darling —
don't write about it.

But then,
how do you stop writing about sadness
when you never run out of it
to write about?
Sep 11 · 147
mess of words
fray narte Sep 11
i could write poems about
the museums kisses we imitated
from paintings hung
in front of us,
about the sudden 4 am drives
because we couldn't wait
for the morning
to see each other,
about our 5 am musings about
not repeating
my parent's history
of falling out of love.

but no, darling,
because this poem
is about the pretend good night kisses
that do not quite touch my skin,
this is about the 4 ams
spent waiting for the sound of your car
or your footsteps
to the front door.
this poem darling,
is for the sound of my heart
breaking the silence that lasted
'til 5 and 6 ams.
this poem is about us —
becoming just like my mom and dad.

this poem is about the songs
that ran out of tune,
and the thousandfold letters
that spilled that day you left
and the poems i was never
able to read again.

darling, this is a poem
about our undoing;
it's about us
giving up on us.

this is about the last time
we made love,
when it wasn't even one.

this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.

a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.
Sep 11 · 132
things to call poetry
fray narte Sep 11
I'm so tired of being anxious,
of self-disparaging and being
just-okay-but-not-really-okay
all the **** time.

I just wanna forget being damaged
for once,
and run and run
and crash somewhere better
and breathe again,
and feel again,
and live again.

Please.
Sep 11 · 277
sad girl chronicles
fray narte Sep 11
Some days, the emptiness isn't even obvious. You're brushing your teeth or putting on your favorite denim jacket or adjusting your wristwatch and it's there, lurking and you don't mind at all. It almost feels normal. Right, even.

But there are days and nights — mostly nights, when it feels colossal, you can't ignore it. There are times when it stares back, it's impossible to pretend it's not there. There are times when it feels out of place and you just sort of wanna dig for what's dead inside, or claw through your ribcages, or crack your chest open — anything, just to get it out of you.
Sep 11 · 229
pluto
fray narte Sep 11
you held my hand;
fire on ice,
ice on fire,
with that summer-and-flares
kinda smile; somehow
it looked out of place among the chaos.

but little did you know,
and little did i,
that that touch
had black-eyed susans growing
on the cracks of the walls
around my heart.
Sep 10 · 316
ohio is for sad girls
fray narte Sep 10
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.
Sep 6 · 180
fighter
fray narte Sep 6
and how brave you are, for getting up and breathing again after the night had shattered your ribs.
Sep 6 · 129
2:44 am
fray narte Sep 6
the world we're in is made
for the silence between your words
now filled with goodbyes, un-lingering;
it is made for you,
breaking my heart in ways
poetry can never beautify.
it is made for the
goodnights never said
and your sneakers,
now missing from the shoe rack
and the last scents of your perfume
on the blanket you left behind.

but in a perfect world
beyond the black hole we're in,
your playlist is still my voice
saying i love yous in a loop.
in a perfect world,
the paper roses still bookmark
our favorite pages;
the side of your eyes still wrinkle
at the sound of my name;
we still live for the 5 am silence
mixed with regular coffee sips
and empty streets
and eye contacts
and that was our kind
of making love.

in a perfect world,
i still read you limericks
and you still annoy me
with your terrible puns
and we still tackle each other in bed
and it still leads to snuggling up,
and never to empty stares
and heartbeats that have
started beating backwards.

in a perfect world,
i'll never run out of metaphors
to write another poem for you,
the way you run out
of love for me.
in a perfect world,
you'll never slip out of my hands
the way my hair
has slipped out of yours.

in a perfect world,
i won't have to write this poem, darling

cause in a perfect world,
i never would have lost you.
in a perfect world,
you've never left at all.
your smile's still there when i wake up;
i'm still your cliche
"girl who feels like sunsets in a winter",
and i'm still
the one you love.
Sep 4 · 371
man-made paradox
fray narte Sep 4
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.
Sep 4 · 331
khione
fray narte Sep 4
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.
Sep 4 · 307
storm-beat
fray narte Sep 4
there is
the calm
before
and after
and
in-between that
is my mind,
caught
in a
n e v e r - e n d i n g
storm.
Aug 29 · 221
anagapesis
fray narte Aug 29
today, i will wake up and think of you. the first thing will be about how your eyes had the color of all the storms that left this year. next will be your hair, in flaming red, as if to make up for all the colors your heart has been drained of for loving me. then, i will think of the way i wrote you poems amid writer’s block; every line, a compulsion, an obsession of i love you's rephrased. i will think of the feel of your skin, cold, but burning, like mercury fires crashing to the poles.

then, i will remember the chipped nails and back scratches and the heat of the whiskey, rushing from your mouth to mine. i will remember october and her rooftop letters we sealed with the skyline's silhouette. i will remember how they have become a foliage of words i refused to stop writing — and words you refused to read. i will remember how we wished to be paper cranes flung to the sun, how i have become icarus incarnate, falling, and crashing back to the earth. today, i will wake up and remember how loving you became my flight and my downfall. i will let the pain eat me up, rip my lungs, one flashback at a time. i will let the pain break me and break me and break me until there's nothing left to break.

and then one day, i will wake up darling, without sleeping next to make-believe alternate endings, without addressing you in apostrophes, and without the storms tailored to be metaphors for you. one day, i will wake up without wondering if you were ever hurt the way i was. i will wake up without thinking of you. i will wake up without the slightest traces of pain.

and then i will let you go.
Aug 29 · 218
object impermanence
fray narte Aug 29
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.
Aug 29 · 125
Neil
fray narte Aug 29
I know a thing or two about couple stuff, darling, and neither of those fits in the space in your heart. The rest of the world basks in love and all its typical aesthetics, you know, the usual; holding hands while overcoming fears and jumping off buildings, and sitting at beach under the midnight sky, talking while meteors come to listen, and staying in small-town bookstores for hours and seeing metaphors from the steam coming off their favorite coffee brew.

But then, loving you isn't all about walking down a trail of roses under pretty sunset hues; it's not sharing the same wanderlust and flying to countryside Europe. Loving you is writing alternate endings to a tragic film, only to find it even more frustrating. Loving you is getting ****** in wormholes leading to chaotic, parallel realities. Loving you is crashing on brick walls, and dancing under the falling debris made to look like a summer rain. Loving you darling isn't like love at all.

But if you give me a chance, I'll kiss you in the subways and make poems out of it, as if the meeting of our lips creates milky ways and all other celestial bodies poets write about.

So let me love you, darling, despite all of this.

Let me love you, the way you deserve it.

Let me love you nonetheless
Aug 22 · 1.1k
hiraeth
fray narte Aug 22
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.
Aug 15 · 225
halley
fray narte Aug 15
my lungs are made of sunbleached storms
and unfinished poems,
stalled and trapped in a cycle
of kisses under the disco lights
and muddled
phonograph records;
it's been so long
since they last sealed
my comets shut;
its ice, dust,
ammonia, sadness,
now trying to spill
out of my chest
every time i sigh a word.

that's what club music is good for;
they mask the sound
of breaking down;
the sound of
bodies and meteors
falling apart;
each noise drowns out
my unsent letters,
and restroom meltdowns,
and my voice, saying your name
over and over and over again
as i come undone
on a stranger's lap.
he looked almost just like you —
and then he didn't.

and my comets almost all stayed,
but they didn't.

and i was almost just alive —
and then i wasn't.

honey, the world got us all wrong —
brewing *****, noise
and ash-brown eyes
across the floor —
it's happiness until it isn't;
in the end,
we're still comets
melting into solar flares
and forlorn figures
that never make it home.

the music fades.
the glasses fall.
it's 8 am, and we still wake up
to the suntrails of all the things we'd lost.
Aug 13 · 417
hilario
fray narte Aug 13
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.
Aug 12 · 340
just a dream
fray narte Aug 12
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."
Aug 9 · 215
poems after you
fray narte Aug 9
i remember being drunk on
our rainy day kisses and the city streets,
the aimless drives and the stolen cigarettes,
gasoline and i love you's suspended in the air;
i remember wanting that day to last.

i remember all the poems i'd written,
my fingertips,
on your back
and all the caffeine we'd run high on,
shaking,
panting,
whilst making love.

back then, writing you poems didn't feel
like relapsing into self-destruction —
writing you poems didn't mean
that i had to break my own heart
just to keep our future whole.

but now, i am lost in a sea of poetry
all written after you;

darling, the last one you read —
the one before you left
wasn't even the last.

and now, i am caught in a thunderstorm
named after all your unsaid goodbyes.
and now,
you feel
like a pit of heartaches
i can sink into anytime.

and clearly, this isn't poetic anymore —
these are just words tied together
to poorly model our august sunsets.
and clearly, this isn't us anymore —
these are just bodies
buried in a pile of mismatched heartbeats.

and clearly, this isn't love anymore, darling.
this is just me, writing about what's left of it.
Aug 8 · 1.8k
eleanor
fray narte Aug 8
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.
fray narte Aug 8
And how do you tell them you feel so empty without making it sound so sad?
fray narte Aug 8
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.
fray narte Aug 8
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.
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