The closing of a book
does not end its tale.
Yet, happy endings
are not too elusive.

To take leave under the sun,
in patches of soft grass,
surrounded by gardens' aroma;

to lie at rest in shreds
cut from the teeth of reality
and still sense
the smell of content.

From our coldest nightmares
we wake up relieved
After our most perfect dreams
we wake up disappointed
I just wake up alone
and cant tell the difference

Seventy degrees
and the sun is just burning
the tops of the trees.

Sky deep and confused,
Crossed in a settling spectrum,
calm in purple hues

The notes hit my ears,
my head dances in the clouds,
and stars lick my tears.

Space hospitable,
much accustomed to the fall:
inevitable.

There is a space in my body,
a room,
that serves no function.
It is empty.
Filled with broken things,
who's shapes I remember with fondness, angst,
and not at all.

All of the walls have holes punched out of them
or into them,
depending on the day.
Most times,
I am not sure where it is.
But I feel it screech as its pushed and pulled
on the worn out track
between my head and chest.

I will be waiting there for you
with matches.
You will come
bearing gasoline.

And it when it feels full
for the first time
I will set it ablaze.
Then we will sleep,
comfortable and warm,
close to our flames.

And long after,
All of the experiences,
The memories,
And even the people,
Dissolved into a single entity.
An emotion undefined,
Intertwined with the thin winter air
And a warm breeze,
Pushing the music through her hair.

The world was black and white, and yet
I walked around covered in crimson blood
That no one else could see.
We could've saved them,
But I wanted to witness it.
Degeneration of mind.
Evaporation of soul.
Tainted communion.
Decay in the essence of their being,
The will to fight for a cause, for ideals, for others
Devolved into a battle within ourselves.
It rips us from the inside out
We embrace the fall from normalcy
Into reality.

The old men addressed them.
Gentle, sympathetic,
Speaking with an openness that manifested enigma within the modern youth.
Empty nostalgia crept in, a rarefied inertia.
Nobility!
A childhood folklore.
Carrying blades in our hearts,
Indifference in our nature.
We scavenged for clarity,
Pumping every drop into our heads.
Coming to a consensus of fragility,
Falsified freedom,
And below all, failure.
Admirable without measure?
Futile.
We erected monuments to acquisitiveness and flesh,
Our feats will echo for eternity.
And qualities are forgotten,
And quantities are recorded,
And the next generation learns a little quicker:
Ration your emotions and let existence exhaust you.

We finished a series of ball and headed outside dripping.
The air was flat,
allowing the glow of the sun to fool us
with the warmth of our extinct summer days.
It was righteous in every direction,
glimmering off the trenches of snow.
The wind rose,
lightly at first,
like the elders leaving church with their tickets punched.
It wrestled sporadically with the air,
confused.
Soon it doubled its muscles
and whipped through us again and again.
Leaving no visual scars,
we attempted to dance with it,
but the heat was gone.
An exchange for compounding disorder.
Nostalgia is simplicity,
entropy is always increasing.