What will that day be like, When the ink finally runs dry? When the gas runs out of that gas station lighter, When those remote batteries finally die?
Will the muse dry up, Or will passion finally run out, Fizzling like a sparkler at its base?
When will it go, Will it be on a bus one day, A startling realization, Or something that can be seen far off?
If that's the case, Will it come after some magnum opus, Planned out in excruciating detail? Or will it go out in a rapid fire of words, A race against time to put letters on the page, A desperate act of the unprepared?
What becomes of these fleeting reunions? Do they wash away with the sea salted sand and becomes fragments of a conversation once had Do they transform into the sugar in your coffee, or the honey in your tea, and compel you to never forget about me? Or do they live in this rustling wind that picks fights with your consciousness and leaves you in a state of rumination between the present and the past?
Do you remember when tunneling ravines would flow through our stomachs before we spoke out into the open? And how vigorously tapping our feet felt like the only way to shake the mountains, daring to bury us alive... or how when cold shoulders felt like judgment harmonized and yet the dissonance euphonized in our ears as we swept our heads back into the open arms of the universe, engulfed by inescapable laughter
Now things are different; you wear your heart on your sleeve, washing the shores of people and things that scare you with your perpetual confidence,
and I proudly observe in wonder and admiration...
Distantly tapping my feet, fighting ravines, and laughing alone.
It leaves its handprints on all that I see, and tarnishes all I touch with poison Feeds depression like a maggot, to deepen this cursed mire that is my place to be It snatches my thoughts away from all glee, and I wish I would vanish, be hidden And alone long for a secret Eden, for a decade it has tormented me
It told me: ”You will never have a hand to hold, nor starry eyes to madly love Alone you'll stay, you're too broken, cautious Your spirit forever burns with my brand, there will be no olive branch, no sweet dove” Thus spoke the cold, dead void called Loneliness
Written sometime in October 2016 after an all-encompassing, amazingly crushing sensation of loneliness.
I found that the cracks in my skin began to heal whenever the moonlight lingered by my window, during the nights when I let the wind bring in its cooling remedies.
I would sit still, lost in my head, With a storm brewing in my swollen heart, Ruminating as I opened my eyes, And I watched the dainty fabric of my curtains as they danced with the cold breeze. Slowly sunlight leaked into the sky as birds sang their delicate songs,
And I found my restlessness fast asleep on my palms. For a moment, time was standing still and I was...
the sun goes by, and it sets as we lie and ruminate in empty rooms inside our heads and the days come late while the nights draw near we run in circles on the hands of fate as we eat our fears one by one the moon goes by, and it sets the days are gone nothing but whispered threats but we draw blood and it drips on soil and mud during crashed road trips to a destination that dies as we grow close and it splits, divides crossroads.