I want to feel disappointed
I want to feel like I have failed
But the feeling I feel most often
Is feeling impervious to things that should bother me most

I know what I should feel
unease, disheartened, and anxious
But all I feel is placid, empty, and slightly annoyed

So I sit on my bed at 2 am and wait for something to fill me
Fear, determination, or irritation
so I can fill out the papers next to me
even with the knowledge of its utter importance
I still couldn't give a ****

Nighttime
Is not moonlit cheeks
And starry eyes

It is a silent island
A private pillar
In the mists
Of lost sleep
A single bleary eye
Fuzzy and clouded
Picking out the patches
Of pixelated sky
Deadened by darkness
Alone again

since when did holding a death sentence
in between my fingers,
become such an amazing getaway?

a sense of relief,
pulls away the weight of the world off of my chest,
leaving my lungs charcoal black,
while gazing into the stars,
head scattered with emotion,
numbing the constant sorrow.

“a cigarette won’t **** you”

i said.

but my weary heart and mourning lungs tell me otherwise,
i smoke to get away from reality,
paying attention to only the:

inhale.

exhale.

“save this broken boy”

i said.

talking to the moonlit sky,
well aware not the stars,
nor my hope will save me tonight.

i smoke my lonely cigarette,
burning it down to the filter,
just to be used and thrown away.

“i have it good”

i said.

The creak of a door,
A sliver of light
Slips and illuminates the evergreen tops.

A sigh of relief echoes between our two walls.
I hear the flick of a lighter.
An orange glow appears.
Floating about an arms length away from a dark shadow mostly hidden
behind the evergreens i always complain of.

We end up mimicking each others actions
Swimmers in a line,
Diving in at the same time.
Synchronizing the timing of raising
our separate cigarettes to
our separate lips,

It’s a small solace,
Two strangers, simultaneously trying to **** themselves just a bit quicker
The only form of intimacy we know at this point in life.

Ash, take a drag, ash, take a drag
Rinse and repeat
The wash cycle is almost over
We puff away together
Until one of us tires or hits the ****.

I once again, hear;
The creak of a door,
A sliver of light illuminates the tight knit needles.
I hear a gentle slam,
In his own way, a goodnight

Market rest under the night sky
As a monkey runs along the roofs of the town,
He hops on the cloth that shades the produce when the sun beats down,
And bounces up and all around
Until the sun comes back again,
And the market exudes life as it should.

Starlight boy, made of constellations, you are my guiding light. You carry the sky, or are you the sky. The waves of purple to navy to black, a collection of your shades. Every one as beautiful as the last. Your night sky never gets tiring to look at. Shifting, moving, covered, but forever there. Within and without, miles from where we are but so close I feel like I could reach out and touch you. So present and so distant, you my starlight boy are a collision of feigned hearts and scrabbled messages. You’re so hard to read, but it’s all never made so much sense until I saw you. So sing me sleepy and say goodbye before sunrise interrupts your melody. But I’ll see you again my love, every night I have left on this Earth, I’ll look towards you.

i used hate the way i would be awake at four in the morning.
i remember the way everything used to feel so haunting and scary.
there were no words to describe how deep inside my mind i would sink into,
scared and afraid of no return.

but now,
oh now,
i love it.
i fell in love with the quiet.
there was no more worry or fear.

where do mattresses go when they leave your home?
do they hitch a ride back to Oregon
that place that you only pitched as an idea for a funny road trip
but never actualized
instead the map with all the pins of the places you've visited
has become the places you'll go and now it's slanting askew  
because your sense of perception is always a little crooked
do they sit by the curb of a dilapidated 7-11 and watch everyone
give them bedroom eyes
is there such a thing as pining or are we naturally drawn to the new?
something foreign that can be learned with time and patience
but the patience runs out like the water in the bag where that fish you won at the fair came in
and when you got home there was only plastic and the rubbery upside down belly of fish scales in an airless vacuum

do they enter through the window and shimmy under the
other dusty things in the attic?
Do they make themselves at home telling you stories of
everything they've seen and don't you wish that
the guests always stayed longer than you could hope for
but forever is not in your cards, it's not even in the receipts
you horde in the kitchen drawer
forever is stuck under the couch but you never check
because it's easier to just sit and think about it

They say a sad soul is always up past midnight.
It's 1:30 AM right now.
I'm still stuck in this perpetual cycle of overwhelming emotions,
None of which are easy for me to avoid and forget altogether.