Photos of old,
Portals into a forgotten time.

Stomping feet upon fields of green,
Smiles and shining Eyes.

Where is the innocence?
Or the meaningless cares?

You were early morning fog that keeps rolling in on grassy hilltops.
Green covered in red and yellow and brown; a place where the living meets the dying.
Cool, minty breath, and the image of you rolling down that hill with a pumpkin in hand will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Orange hair, dark freckles on your face, pretty black tights and a bright yellow jacket that was almost too obnoxious for the beginning of September.

"When did the Autumn become the saddest season?" I asked her as she sipped her coffee as black mascara fell down her pink freckled cheeks.

Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures,
unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories.
After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited.
They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives,
we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts,
we become connected by an invisible red line,
that passes through all the virtual mess
and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.

I’m sure that somewhere,
in Russia,
or maybe in the Czech Republic,
there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve
to ask me out for a drink
or for some pasta,
not caring that I’m rushing through his photo,
on my way to a public restroom,
or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.

The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain moment
are facing the ground,
while their owners rehearse their speech
in front of the mirror,
leaving me and all the other tourists through life
behind the black hole library shelf,
in perfect equilibrium,
not knowing if I’m coming or leaving -
an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.

Here’s to all the strangers in my heart!
Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!

It's early.

Quietly, I sip my coffee
listening to you talk about
your new favorite songs
and the latest movies

You pause to take a drink.

The sun rays shine
through the café window
onto the spot of your skin
that lacks pigment

Pictures cannot capture
the moment we sat
together in silence,
smiling cheerfully

Whilst I sit and read
I fly on a unicorn
Lighting up the sky

archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.

this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.

my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.

november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.

for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.

the picture frames will not let me back in.

i / am / absent / here

memories,
captured in a moment.
on a single paper,
remembering in the silent,
inks fade, doesn't last forever,
together we are broken,
but we can see it in this small paper,
these happiness and enjoyment.