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Though I worry myself to pain,
And the wind unrelenting blows.

There is solace in the sight of an oncoming train.
Sometimes I wonder if the conductor knows.


Every evening at half past five
I board with no real destination.
His gentle voice asking for my ticket keeps me alive.

Though my daily absences keep raising questions.
This band around my finger has grown too tight.

He acting less as a husband, more as a victor. Nailing my shoes to the floor so I can't leave at night.

Still my mind always drifts back to my train conductor.
14
A city of strange sights
Something sinister is hiding beyond the lights

Your comfortable ignorance blinds you from the war
I wonder if the fight is worth it anymore

The calm babble of a fountain near
Contrasts the cries for help barely reaching my ear

The place where our humanity is lost
And we leave one another to rot

I used to think myself a giving person
But I have since learned my lesson

I ask a man with a bourgeoisie air
For change to help pay my train fare

His face tightens when he looks at me
"Sorry,

I spent it all on overpriced coffee,"

And for another night I'm stuck here
I keep replaying the day you left.

A normal, almost pleasant morning until you tore that final rift.
Cool summer air mixing with despair upon finding your
note.

And my sudden flow of tears blurred most of what you wrote but,
It doesn't take much to know I don't make your cut.

And I've yet to address all of the stress or how much I have shrunk.
Most nights spent drunk, I've found the best listeners to be stars.

I tell them of gashes fading into scars.
Tip-toeing around the most painful parts has become a form of art.

What a fool to think I could trick the moon
with this broken heart.

No amount of alcohol can take me from these dizzying heights so,
I guess you were right.
The shutter clicks twice.
"You take too many pictures"
But you pay me no mind.

The years fly by and,
As you begin to forget
I keep asking why.

Still you smile at me,
Though I've become a stranger
Lost in memory.

I bring your pictures.
"Remember when we lived here?
Or these light fixtures?"

I brought your tapes but,
Your bed is empty now.
Mourning your lost shape.

When you left I found
Your philosophy makes sense now.
There's so much beauty
That can't afford to be lost.

I look one last time
At the first picture
You took with that camera
Now gathering dust.
A collaborative project with Liberty Urban. This poem is inspired by one of her paintings.
I will likely die by 25
A slave to my vice.

But at least I will go
At the foot of the throne
Where I learned
What it means
To worship.
You
Your laughter spills like ink onto my heart.

Breathing color and light into the cracks.

To you, nothing has to be fixed. You accept everything as it is.

Being with you makes me want to give this feeling to everyone, too good to keep to myself.

It's not the electricity they talk about in movies.

Not cathartic.

No, you are more sustainable than these things.

You are Sunday mornings,

Coffee shops during gentle rain,

I'm nostalgic for you even when you are right in front of me.

With you, nothing needs to be fixed.

Not even me.
These familiar streets used to bring solace.

You see, this used to be a blank canvas but I've painted myself onto it and people are starting to notice.

Looking out from my seat all I see are ghosts of what I've done lining the streets.

And it's a scene I wish I could reframe
But this,

This a problem I just can't tame.

Maybe I'll change my name

Then plan a party with no invitations and wonder why nobody came.
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