Your breathing chases ghosts away.*
I exhale shotgunned smoke
And laugh at my own words.

My coffee's too bitter and
The thunder and locus
Weave a song,
Dissonant to my professor's  
Charlie-Brown teachings.
I should pay attention,
But the lightning illuminates my doubts.
I look around,
And I love the rain,
But I fear my peers and I
Are unharmonious.
I fear they cannot hear the storm.

Those dark spots
had always been there
always intrigued him

He imagined them
to be islands
where he could go
in his dreams
and her white skin
would be endless beaches
in the sunlight

But they disappeared
with her
and were gone for years
he had nearly forgotten
until today

Those dark spots
appeared again
under a different light
away from the sun
and his dreams
the islands were cold
like the fluorescent light
and her lips

The sea had gone dry
like  her eyes had no tears
and they begged of him
to give them his
for old times' sake

Sometimes I wish
we lived in a different century,
a different era,
so when you had to go away
I could write you letters.

Letters,
a whole stack,
with penmanship so quaint
and words so fancy,
you would not be able to stop
marvelling at their beauty.
(I imagine)
You would spend hours on end
unravelling the secret longing
behind every blithe sentence,
every playful word.

And while absent-mindedly stroking
the dried ink on the parchment
as if it were my skin,
you would miss me so infinitely much
that without wasting another second,
you would hurry back home
to me.

Once.
Twice.
Three times
and four….

Like clockwork,
every five minutes,
he opens the fridge door.

He knows it is empty
but he’s got the munchies;
he can’t help himself.

Maybe he’s hoping to find
a tasty treat left for him
by a fairy, a pixie or a kind elf.

This seems like a plausible excuse,
the only way to explain
why he keeps peeping into an empty fridge
over and over and over again.