I often find ways to cherish the lost things in the world,
whether that be from nature
or from your throat. The way something can metaphorically escape you is something
I can't quite word right
through scribbles inside a broken journal late at night under a fire
that I wish came from your lips. I believe loss is at the core of my existence,
and i don't know if that makes me morbidly poetic or ordinarily insane. Incidentally,
my lungs are filled
with forgotten love songs
you sang to me when I was feeling muted in a world full of incomprehensible sounds
and my ribs are made from collections of old words from past lives, and whether it came from broken branches or foggy days,
i still don't know. Most people want to keep things forever and cherish their pulsing cores,
but i have learned that relying
on water from another puddle will only lead to your own drought. Maybe that's why I seem
to be lonely in a world
full of silhouettes waiting to be filled with something other than thoughts that consume them secretly,
ones that have guaranteed them that someone will plant fresh flowers in their dying skins every chance they get. I, on the other hand,
have accepted the fact that death is a part of the Earth and cannot be controlled,
no matter how many pleas I send to God with grasping palms under judging lights in hospital buildings and bedrooms. I tried to tell you this,
but you ignored
my philosophies and continued to refer to death as the five letter tragedy;
the inevitable loss of everything everyone hopes and dreams for. Luckily,
i know that when you reach for the stars,
you don't always get the
constellations you wish for,
and sometimes, you don't even get anything
but a polluted atmosphere filled regretful exhales and apologies.