there’s not much to say;
i wish i could hold you close and dear
but at arm’s length, you are far beyond reach
i cannot feel your breath against my neck
i cannot feel your hands around my waist
yet we crave every inch of touch
we crave for each other’s taste

it’s such a tragedy to fall into
a love so fragile and secure
but is it love, lust or loneliness?
or are we merely avoiding the question?
are we drowning,
just for the sake of making one another feel whole?
do these hands and smiles revolve around misguided truths?
are your words cloaked in lies or are mine disputed moves?

i guess we will never know

(n.j.)

drifty blazed eyes open the skies
to be carried along currents of floating lullabies
a soul to suspend on teardrops instead of buildings,
clouds instead of windows, embodying birds instead of foreign creatures
---- i shift my exterior and fall into embrace
into the knowledge of good and evil
for i am with Her

(n.j.)

with a weak heart, she smoked a ton
paired with weak lungs and an alcohol craving of ten men
god knows when she'll drink herself to death
"but not today, not tonight", she said to herself

n.j.

On a Sunday Morning, past midnight at 2
The curtains danced to the faint blowing of an open window,
Welcoming the soft serenade of a young born season.
Tenderly brushing against the moon-kissed concrete and cemented barriers,
Awake was a soul secluded yet only six inches laid between them.
Surrounded by a hedge of sturdy bookshelves and custom-made decors
The soul watched their towers dominate over their demons,
Certain of the security and what they had to offer.
Needless to say, this was their safest haven,
A place they can call their own.

But there was something reassuring
About the subtlety of the melody that played
On a Sunday, past midnight at 2 in the morning.
The air breathing in life into crisp pages
And knocking gently, elegantly on the tempered surfaces
Although life only played behind a curtain,
Hands that held only books and pens,
Eventually craved for the outside’s blessing
And awake was a soul patiently waiting for its turn.

(n.j.)

there is nothing beyond nor over
the sheets remain cold and empty
i am buried under
the tables are rotting
my knees, shivering despite the comfort
but what is comfort when everything is fabricated?
and coated in complete isolation?

(n.j.)