He asked me to confess expectations
An open dare to my emotions
My heart clanged against ribcage
Shaking the sturdiness of my spine
And I cried, each tear
Their own confession
As my expectations trailed down my cheeks
And I couldn’t tell him the truth
Or deliver him my hope
In a careful created box of words
I could trace the exit wounds of each exe
And the pain lingered, small phantoms
I wasn’t ready to let him go
So when he asked for a confession
I didn’t give him my emotions
Because how could I expect him to stay
When everyone leaves?

She said, 'its okay -
it's not what we thought
So it's time to stop short,
to let go, step back
and take a different route.
It's time to play a new track,
one which gives more scope
for dancing without tripping
for singing with no mind to the heckling.
So step back,
let go and go your way
while I go mine.
It's okay,
its just that this time
we both ran out
of each other's time.'
And she went.

Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Spasms.
Pain.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
and self-quenching.
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
shame
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
and place.
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
and convulsions).
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
from me
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
foreign presence
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
alongside?
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
called “Story”
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
into sacralities
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
or feelings,
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
of comprehension
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
words,
flesh,
tiny traits,
demeanour,
beginnings
and endings
and middles,
as it throws a wave after wave
of conundrums
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
of acting/being/breathing/affecting…
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
​Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
tonight,
you rest next,
aside me.
Спокоиней ночи,
всё кто живет во мне и не.

I want to drink all the juices of it’s light
we can be bigger than this, older than this
the ocean is only here for a while for us
underneath your fingers I can already see
the shaping of the amethyst

we won’t tell the wind
that this one day you will cross the street waiting for me
on the opposite side our umbrellas will touch
a glimpse of a smile and your hand waving apologetically
flying like a bird away from my sight
there you will be, my invisible wife
we won’t tell the winds, we won’t tell the seas
they are only here for a while

that night when I fall asleep
I will see the rivers on your palms leading me through
that night we will leave life, my invisible wife
and we will finally be

If I were a song, you had left at the stanza
Notes hung in the air like wingless butterflies
I wished for a caesura but the song came to an end
And all that was left is a

s i l e n t
r e v e r b e r a t i o n
o f
w h i t e  n o i s e

The curtains were drawn
But I still heard the flapping of wings
A strong and steady staccato
That perhaps existed only in my head

does anyone else
get that pressure in your chest
it hurts to breathe
and your pulse is quick?

does anyone else
get a lump in your throat
it won't be pushed down
and your throat feels raw?

does anyone else
dream of happy days
a dog and a beach
and the smell of the ocean?

does anyone else
not want to die
but not want to lie
about the life they are living?

does anyone else
want to be someone else
want to be somewhere else
want to be something else?