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fray narte Jun 2019
honey you never loved me, you simply loved having someone you could write poetry about.



and i gave you that.
fray narte Jun 2019
Our lips met
in a cosmic collision,
like the sun and the moon
in an eclipse;
we sensually nibbled,
and ******,
and licked,
and tongued,
and got a taste
of each other's sadness.
I could almost swear
kissing you felt like
drowning and yet,
never wanting
to come up for air.
Our hands were frantic,
like ballerinas
made to dance
under the tune
of insane rock music;
we fumbled
on each other's
zips and buttons,
'til they were
ripped
along with our clothes
and the masks
we wore.
Our skins grazed
in sweat and despair,
like the earth
good-morning-kissed
by the sun
after an entire night
of raining;
we caressed
and clawed on backs;
I was pretty sure
I had glimpse
of your soul,
and you probably
saw a void
where mine should be,
but we let our demons
dance 'til two,
like figure skaters
gliding gracefully
over thin ice
during a winter night.

And I thought it was love.
God, I almost called it love,
I even wished it was.

But darling, it was the bottles on the floor. Probably *****.
fray narte Jun 2019
there are nights when i’ll tire myself out chasing cars and city lights or writing about constellations i don’t even know, and there are nights like this, when i can’t help but steal our happy endings from the poems you haven’t read. there are nights like this, when your name dislodges me from the orbits i learned to tiptoe in just so i can forget what walking next to you feels like. there are nights like this, when i wish that our songs will wane with the moonlight.

there are nights like this, darling — when you’re asleep while i’m out here trying to unlearn the patterns of missing you — nights when i miss you even more than i want to.

there are nights like this, darling.

there are nights like tonight.
fray narte Jun 2019
I’d like to think that there is someplace where you never fell out of love with me and out of the orbits we made. And that’s why I still write — for my poems to be that place where words never failed us, where the goodbyes were never said for good, and where I could breathe in your scent at 6 am and know and feel that you were still there; that it wasn’t just another trace you left behind. At least in the poems, I could make you love me still.

At least in the poems, I could undo the fights and stitch our red strings back to each other, and look at you as if I was lost in the sea, and you were made of moon dusts and starlights.

At least in the poems, I could probably make myself enough — make my love enough for you to stay. At least in the poems.

But then again, they’re just poems darling, arranged to look like a happy ending. They’re just poems. And you’re still gone.

You’re still gone.
fray narte Jun 2019
this is the last time i’ll hold on to the bonfires we lit amid the cold night air in a distant beach. this is the last time i’ll put your favorite song on repeat in my car while taking detours, just to hear them for a longer period of time. this is the last time i’ll eat ice cream on a rainy day because that hobby isn’t mine and it isn’t yours, but ours, darling — and ours is that book or that photograph you left behind in a hometown you’ll never mention to the strangers of a new city.

this is the last time i’ll subconsciously touch my wrist tattoo whenever i miss you — heck, this is the last time i’ll miss you. this is the last time i’ll stay up until midnight to watch our homemade short films. this is the last time i’ll view the digital poems you compiled because darling, poems always break your heart and maybe that’s why you kept on breaking mine.

darling — this is the last time i’ll want to hold your missing arms; this is the last time i’ll want to hold on to someone who has already let me go — this is the last time i’ll want to hold onto you. and tomorrow, i’ll be letting you go and *******, i want you to feel every bit of what it’s like to be let go.

so this is the last time, darling. this is the last lines i’ll ever write for you — this is the last prose i’ll ever call poetry — the last time i’ll ever call us poetry.

the last time i’ll call us magical.

the last time i’ll call us love.
fray narte Jun 2019
And I hope one day, you meet her in some historic street, or in an old bookstore, or in some countryside field, and I hope she loves the way you speak with your lisp, and I hope she likes the films you like, and I hope she writes you poetry at 2 am. And I hope her words finally feel like the kind of home you’ve been looking for — the kind of home you’ll grow old in and never leave, and the one you never found in me.
fray narte Jun 2019
cigarettes still taste a little like our last kiss — like it's 5 am again and we were stuck in rusty rooftops, waiting for the break of dawn, or for the other to initiate the kiss. that being said, i always wished that 5 am's lasted longer, and that cigarettes burned longer, and that we kissed longer. but before we knew it, the sun had risen and there we were, ashing our cigarettes on the floor, kissing our last kiss. but here i am, darling — yours for the breaking; my cigarettes, yours for the taking — so kiss me again. break me again. leave me again.

say goodbye to me, darling. say goodbye, just once again.
danny Apr 2019
Looking for good in all the bad places,
searching and meandering,
forlorn for so long.

Hearing a song in a room of silence,
straining and deciphering
only to realize it only sounded like music.

Draining others for what I already had,
pilfering and pounding
when it was inside all along.
danny Apr 2019
Live happened,
From moments of bliss to thoughts of
your actions don't scream rainbows and unicorn tears.

Love happened,
from hopeful futures to dreams of
what can I do to get by double bed back.

Tears happened,
from overwhelming sadness to notions of
even the nano second between the blinks is too much time missed.

Trauma happened,
from seizures of crippling doubt to musings of
how much time can I waste before I am not bored.

Strength happened,
from not leaving the bed for fear of trying to waves of
lil' old me did big all that.

*** happened,
from intertwining explosions of life to pleads of
just take me away from my self for five minutes.

Truth happened,
from realizations that we never actually had a clue to knowing
that a word can shatter everything quicker than a bullet.
Jack Jenkins Apr 2019
Run away//
Run away//
From the alarm clock that breaks your rest//
Run away//
From the pains held in your chest//
A life unblessed//
From blessings you subvert//
Run away//
From the love you invert//
Run away//
Run away//
Run//
Away//
//On life//
Running being the wrong choice is only dependant on the direction you choose to run...
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