Late at night, when distant memories surface, she pulls at the tug of nostalgia.

In a different life, maybe they stood a chance. Maybe she didn’t walk away. Maybe he didn’t let her leave.

In a different world, maybe they could have been. Maybe she would have kissed him. Maybe he would have fought for her.

In a different universe, maybe they’re in love. Maybe she’s his heartbeat. Maybe he’s her home.

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

How many unspoken words exist between us?
A trail of feelings we don’t want to admit.

Some days it is fine.
Other days it is unbearable.

How lucky you are to be written about
shaped by someone else’s words
that you affected them so deeply
they had to write you out of their system.

Bravery is getting through the day
unscathed by monotony and routine.

meet the gaze of your reflection
the weariness and exhaustion
a hammer suddenly pounding
your poor, overworked lungs
what did time steal from you?
how did someone familiar
become so unrecognizable?
like amnesia except you remember
every mistake that has led you here
the destructive pattern of self doubt
accompanying every morning
the moments of happiness lingering
but never staying long enough
the realization flashing like an ugly,
neon sign on a run-down side
of your pre-frontal cortex
in slow motion, the atoms of your body
devoured, eaten away by reality

I write to take the edge off,
to peel back a layer
or two

the dull ache of thinking,
and over-thinking,
again and again

a rhythmic anxiety
that tortures
me awake

too much time,
too little time,
all the time.

The sun seeps through our blinds
and I can see the touch of light
upon your sleeping face.

My tender, beating heart slows,
admiring all of the ways
that you make me yours.

It’s melancholic how life is made
of a million fleeting moments
but very few are like this.

Thoughts detached from emotion;
a visual of white against white—
the color of lacking, absence,
one single sigh.