To forget someone
You need to remember first
And that's the odd thing

Not gone,
You are just farther,
Far from me.
When it gets darker,
You are just farther.
Hanging in the expanse
Like a crystal.
Staring at your home,
You are not gone.

An extra in the collection.
A collection of infinite
Sea of stars,
And pages of memory.
Some packed in my skull,
Some hanging out
Like a treasury.
Staring at your home,
You are not gone.

You look at me so mysteriously
As if there is some substance in my soul
I am scared because I know I am so flawed
I laugh it away to distract and repulse your wonder

You sound so calm, as in early morning gentle rain
And your smell travels faster than the wet soil
I roll my fingers in your grains, in your grass
"What a beauty", so unattainable, I close my eyes

You too, are like a statistician, waiting for the final significance
I feel some unsaid words, like the birds sensing a storm
Where do we go from here?
What if we die just looking at each other?

My heart has spoken.

It's your turn now.

I’ve been walking this path longer than I meant to.
The trees along the side don’t talk anymore, and neither do the birds sing,
and the hills blur together as one
far and wide
like excuses in someone else’s mouth.

Funny how distance never explains itself.
You look back and it seems like forever or minute,
and the sharp things start to disappear:
the cliffs, the fear, the hopes,
even that voice you loved now just slips between reality and illusion.

We think about that love sometimes.
“That love”—you know the one.
Who first brought butterflies,
then left moths.
That was months ago,
or years,
or last week.
Depends who’s asking.
Just look how the bruises show,
and you wonder how you let them sink their fangs into you.

They left like a season that decided to skip town,
a breeze blown stronger than the wind
when it was convenient.
No letter,
no text message,
just one day, out of the blue,
they decide today was the day
my name didn’t mean warmth anymore,
and the time shared was meaningless
left you climbing up the walls to escape the sinking feelings that you try to hide.

I think it was then
I started wandering a lonely road.
The road less traveled—or was it just the only one left?
That’s where I met a guy
pushing a shopping cart
held together by plastic ties and prayer.
He told me he stopped counting miles
once the ground stopped being polite.
He said the hard part
wasn’t the walking.
It was knowing
nobody waits at the end.

We shared a smoke
and didn’t say anything profound.
But I remember the silence in that moment.
I think that mattered more than the smoke to both of us.

Some days
my hands smell like metal and sweaty palms.
Other days
I forget what I used to want from life.
I write,
I sleep,
I try not to watch the news.
Sometimes,
I look at life like it owes me an apology.
But it doesn’t.
Not me.
Not you.
It is what it is.

There’s a joke in all this,
I think
how nothing stays,
but the wounds still pile up.
How sorrow doesn’t have a face,
but somehow still wears your hoodie
and that Anon mask,
and it doesn’t stop kicking your ***.

People say
it gets better.
Does it? Really!?
Are they sure?
Or is that just cold comfort?
And maybe it does.
But better isn’t always different.
Sometimes
it’s just quieter
the same ****,
just another day.

And you keep going.
Because you do.
Because you have to.
Because the road
doesn’t care what you’ve been through,
who you are,
or who you lost,
or what you think you know.
It only knows forward.

And so forward we must walk
until one day,
there’s no more path,
and the journey quietly ends.

It’s then you realize
paradise was always in your soul.
We’re all just lost
dragging bruises through the labyrinth.
But still
We keep on going anyway.