Past one in the morning
Talking about our dreams
About how we wanted to go on a trip
Midnight driving with the windows down
Feeling the cold air hitting our skins
Loud music blasting from the stereo
Us enjoying our youth
As we go to unfamiliar places
Wandering and getting lost
Forgetting our sorrows
And experience never ending gaeity
Looking up to the stars
Wishing for this friendship to last forever
Or maybe just a lifetime
Cherishing the moments
Before it turns into memories
Memories that will tattoed on our souls
The dreams we've talked about
I badly want it to happen
Us four, on a spectacular road trip
Living our best lives.

Our talks of the sunset
Were poems themselves

Yet , it look so beautiful
but making me ugly inside.
The bridges created by us
were unsurely doubting us
lacking the sense of being loved
we ended up being stifling
beneath our own bridges.

i've heard you
talking to the stars.
do your scars
heal with their light?
do they feel,
compassionate and kind,
your sorrow,
and understand
your blue life?

i've talked to them once
cold as iced ice,
they wasted my time.

i like talking to the
grass, the flowers
instead.
they aren't dead,
immortal or fire-red.
they aren't wise,
they just empathise.
the trees, the green
sometimes talk back
and i listen like a child;
the rustling leaves,
the broken twigs.

but you look up!
bored of the ground,
you need their coldness,
their empty shiny eyes.

I killed the light
so I could hear you talk
about death
within the life of journeys

How come, say,
that this is the most real I've felt in weeks?
As a ghost through the glass in the night
mute and almost blinded
by the light of the moon
Unseen, unacknowledged
and yet - and yet
It's as if you looked at me
for the first time
Met my gaze
and still decided to speak

Somehow I don’t want to talk
Because what I will say
Will end up being lost.
Silence, but at what cost?
It is not that I don’t pray
For this uncertainty to stop
But there is nothing I can say
To help me today.

Beautiful hair; 4 am, lights in the apartment room.

The notification made me jump from happiness, expecting it was you.

I'll talk with myself through it and tell it to shut up.

A week felt like a year.

Late-night talks were never seen again,
if seen: Tell them they were good

typing...

Night talks: every day.

Can I talk through you with this poem?

I loved it when we used to talk.
The moments when you used to tell me,
what you feel about me.

Now before I sleep,
I think about you,
every night
and I let you go.
Every night.