and it isn’t so odd that
we become each other’s
caretakers, as like
children, we reach for love,
as if we’ve never endured
a long winter’s night alone,
hope the last matchstick
lit in our hand.

• not sad. not sad at all.
• this ache is too indescribable for being real
• I die every time. then again I live: to die
• you took away my prose. you snatched my poetry and burnt it
• matchsticks and broken hearts
• voids and monotonous escape routes
• aren't we all waiting?