The jellyfish you drew
that are on my wall keep moving.
They float higher and higher
until they're on the ceiling, above me.
I can't stop thinking about you.

This isn't a happy story
I don't think it's even a story at all
It certainly has an end
and by virtue of being told
it has a beginning

It's the middle part that becomes murky
how do you a quantify a human life
the little intricacies that you can't even remember
the butterfly, whose wings
flapped a few too many times
leading me to this

Standing 746 feet above the water

I wonder if it would always end this way
if every fork in the road would eventually curve inward
if every call would remain unanswered
if every love would fade

I think that's the funny thing about objectivity
it exists in isolation

this is my story
or lack thereof

*Jump

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.