I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

What about tomorrow?
Tomorrow just ended today,
And will perish again tomorrow ,
Like the morning glory,
That drains alcohol to become sober,
And when,
everything that was
Sublimes in afternoon
The morning glory vapes itself into the evening,
Thinking of high planes, as falling stars
Wishing, but is turned into wisps,
As night falls,
The morning glory, withdrawn of all substance
Gets drunk with the multitude of mishaps,
And gradually dozes off in shadows
As all the wishes turn to wisps and drift away,
Another tomorrow ends all the same,
And tomorrow again,
The morning glory
will turn on the lights of yesterday to see,
As it imbibes, everything that was,
once again .

I will float
somewhere between my dreams
and the darkness of reality
this space holds a truth
that only my blind eyes can see
if I cease to believe
I will no longer exist
lost in space
falling upwards
into the abyss

Do you mind me sending a heartfelt paragraph?  if i talk to you like this, it'll feel a little like talking to each other in 2019 again. in all honesty, a part of me misses you, in an unknown way yet. i can't tell whether this longing is amico-related, full-on nostalgic or romantic. it's extremely inappropriate to talk like this, but it's a real feeling I'm currently going through. i don't know; maybe we should've gotten together if you did like me even just a bit. perhaps that would erase the curiosity that lies within me. or maybe not curiosity, maybe just the foolish, romantic, nostalgic part of my heart that finds it difficult to let go of feelings that never materialized into something real. christ, i pray you never ever read this because this is extremely embarrassing and devastating should anyone else but me read it. consider this a letter that should've been posted to  you many years ago, that arrived only today. this letter, which back then would've been considered a rubicon-crossing type thing, is only relevant if seen through the lens of a nostalgic person, one who's trying to piece his life back together. this is, after all, the remnants of my past self talking to you, with the honesty he wasn't able to give you when it would've mattered the most.

now, i have to live with the regret of never knowing how you truly felt and you never knowing how much, just how much, i needed you back then, just how much i loved you, just how much i liked you. you would've been my everything and my every day would've been devoted to you; hell, i would've written you books of poetry just to show you a small piece of my devoted heart which I'd have given to you in whole - really, there would've been no space for anyone else. but look at us now...****, we're both alone but we can't even say anything to each other now, the ship is now beyond repair. i cannot sail to your island anymore, my love (for i do still wholeheartedly love you). so, what now? should i press send? i am downing my final shot of the night. i am sober enough to tell this is the type of **** only a drunk person would send. but i am not sober enough to stop myself from sending it. we both know the bridge has long burned. i just need you to know, i desperately want you to know you are still my muse, the one i write little lines for in my notebook, the one i dedicate whatever lame poem i come up with.

okay, that's all i had to say. good night, Willa.


He looked at his phone for a minute or two, loud chatters surrounded him. For a moment, he hesitated. His thumb was hovering over the delete button. He was imagining her face as he closed his eyes. The music died down. Customers left one by one. Stoically, he sat there, meditating, contemplating. Email sent.

I long to be an old woman
Fingers stricken by wrinkles and skin memory of past love
I want to gaze longingly into the Miamian sunset and ponder on missed chances
I want to make cheesecake a long forgotten friend i venture back to with fondness every fortnight or so
I want to fall into trivialities like bingo or muffin making
To die beach side and ancient so that blood memory awakens
And with my last breath ecstasy implodes and i become the last generation again
The clock isn't real
Its digits are manmade
And with it comes functionality like we are predestined to coup against
I will be your old lady
And you will be that soft, young ear that my razor blade lined drivel will fall against

Your fingers make their way in my mouth, wrapped in my tongue like a gift, digging my waist and softly ripping appart my psyche.
I am unwell for you, too ripe and too ready,
The sweet ache of my teeth holding down my pleas makes itself known
What is love if not ruin