Danielle Jul 9
the passing of the clock seemed irrelevant back then
when it was twilight, and we trudged
gently, hand in hand, through the trees
towards a trail I’d never crossed before.

you kept asking me why my hands always shake, and
I answered with a cigarette that you needed to light.

I only smoked with you to keep time-

six minutes pass. still I’m all
bleary-eyed and swollen tongued,
so I light one more. slowed enough, now,
to spark the match myself.
now seven minutes tick by and I feel a sense of
security, suddenly, in the way your fingers
tap along my knuckles, pressing like you’re
running your hands along the wall of a dark hallway,
feeling for a hollowed-out space
or a door handle, anything to find your way
out.

three cigarettes later and I stopped counting the minutes.
no longer watching the pines swirl, no longer
catapulted down a drain alongside them,
but steadied enough to notice the subtle hollows
in your own eyes,
vacant smile lines and bluish hues
that spelled out a suffering your mouth would
vehemently deny.

I’m in the pines, again,
empty-handed and dry,
feeling along the ridges our footprints
in search of the fault line, the remnant of your final notice
that should have been here all along.

I thought we’d been here days ago-
autumn came and took her leave,
but the scenery is still viscerally the same.
the wind and cigarette ashes told me you’ve been
back to our old stomping grounds, too,
but I can’t bring myself to stay too long
past twilight.
not when I can’t keep track of how many minutes,
or weeks, or days it’s been
since the last hazy meeting
for you and I.
Tarik Jun 11
The smoke of my death certificate fades into the ether of the night
It is not my first.
It is not my last.
The beacon amplifies the smoke
It dances in the gleam of the incandescence
To track its path is to count the sands of the Sahara
It waltzes like a paranoid ghost showering upwards
Shimmying like an epileptic schizoid on a carousel
Jostling in an undefined constraint
Gaby ZA Jun 6
2005
sunday
first day of spring
The world may start to come alive
Before in coffee shops viewed the world as gray
Now we hear the birds sing, wedding bells ring, queen bees that sting,
Wellspring
Shaking off winter chills and enter springtime blues
Here comes the sun
The hills with vivid colors and lovebugs and crazy daisies
Kids running crazy
Screaming, water guns
The weather becomes lazy
And starts looking hazy
Gail Hannon May 29
There was a thunderstorm last night.
Today it smells like sweet petrichor,
Coating my nose and holding everything
Very Still.
But last night.
There was a thunderstorm.
Thunder rolling like waves crashing and breaking on the shore.
Lightning cutting jagged lines in the air.
And so much rain that the puddles look like oceans.
And the world is sweet petrichor.
And through the thunderstorm,
I thought of you.
Your hand in mine.
Your warm, sweet hugs.
The soft kisses that part of me will always pretend never happened.
And part of me aches for again.

Through the thunderstorm,
My thought was of sharing the time with you.

There was a thunderstorm last night.
One that almost shook the ground I stood on.
And I was not afraid.
But my fingers felt quite lonely.
And my thoughts resided elsewhere.
And now the morning's breaking,
And the whole thing is kind of hazy.
And the world's made of sweet petrichor.
And my thoughts still lie on you.
KM Hanslik Apr 24
We're all just symptoms of the way the world
disposes its skeletons into
our systems, carving names into
our psyches like it makes any difference
sleeping with the thought of
our own mortality pressed against our ribs and counting the hours until
we get out of these lives we're living
we spend so long waiting to be something
different, we waste away to
the tapping of our own feet
our hearts racing the clock because our brains
blur reality into a haze of insgniciant moments. Press your fingers
against my skin, make me forget this
vicious cycle we are trapped in.
I want to breathe for a moment without calculating
the cost of each hour,
do you see the way our feet are chased by our own
shadows, inescapable?
Mine dances sometimes when I take my fingers to
the wheel and
I feel like I'm flying sometimes in
my dreams or waking
half-realities, but halfway-things melt in the morning and seep
back into my bloodstream at night.
I'll be up before the sun, recounting
each fleeting glimpse of could have beens, the irony being
that mourning half-born things is what holds us
from stitching up the pieces of
what is now.
Haze Apr 4
From the day I met you I knew something felt right
Your personality is so bright
I wish I could be with you forever
But I know it will probably be never

I want you to be my knight in shining armor
Someone to deal with me
Someone to be real with me
Though I know this is all crazy
And this all just seems hazy
Would you be
My knight in shining armor

Everytime I see you I just get this feeling
You are the secret I am concealing
You don't judge me like everyone
I think my heart has won

Don't you see
How much you mean to me
It's so hard to hold on
But it's even harder to let go

If you find "the one"
I will know I haven't won
I'll try to move on
You won't see me when I'm gone.
smokey basil Apr 4
i am sitting on a cobalt blue stool
in your placid, dull kitchen
with my head in my hands.
you're gone.

there is a hazy
veil of grey
that covers the late
afternoon sky
and a stagnant silence
stretching to the ceiling.

everything is still;
the empty glass
in front of the
vacant violet vase
and
your ill-fitting
jean jacket
that is lying on the
dark wood.

my stomach crawls around.
my eyes are almost shut.
my legs are numb.
you are not here.

only the clock ticks,

and tocks.
It's been a couple of weeks since I've written but I have a lot of drafts I'll hopefully finish soon.
thomas Apr 4
i smile, for you are... ethereal.
you, the ghost of my imagination,
an angel above, you're perfect: unreal.
a creature of sparks and rose foundation.
but sometimes, your hazy skies get colder
my ephermal thoughts see a moon gone dark
then the skies lighten, with clouds turned golden
shoots of crimson, illuminate your heart;

with your cheeks tinted rose
and crinkles in your nose.
my life has been tinted with roses, recently.
Ash Feb 15
I wake up- the scent of fine powders, perspiration, and arrogance all laced around me, permeating.
Duck under the sheets, shield yourself from the sunlight. Come back up for a breath of air.
Mornings are repetition at its finest.
Grab a fruit on your way to the water; peel it with sharp fingers; rip and tear.
You open your eyes to a world in which you are born anew, puffy skinned and amazed.
All the colors are a slightly different shade, more attached. Pale opalescence shines before your eyes.
All sound is but a whisper now.
Sweet release from a long sleep. Tire me again tonight, joy will come with the dawn.
You are calling
and I just keep staring
frozen
my heart resonates
to the vibration of the ringing phone.

My eyes are hazzy
My mind is fuzzy
I don't know what to say
For I fear I will make a fool of myself
leaving to end the conversation
on an awkward note.

The call ends
I breathe
to calm my nervous nerves.

I call back
only to find myself stutteringg
and being overly conscience
with every word I say
dreading to have called
as the call ends.
This is a poem based on a true event of having anxiety when someone was calling.
Next page