#cinematic
Is that it then?
Time passes as you do, oh how much I miss you.
I feel your breathing getting closer to mine. I open my eyes, but you're not there with me.
Why?
You can't forget what happened, what happened between us.
Your supremacy has gone too far, now that's enough.
I won't spend any more sentimental words for you.
I hate the way I am without you.
I feel a haze that takes me, pierces me and won't let me go.
Please, let me go.
Or am I the one who has to do it?
Before you go, please, just tell me if I've meant even a fifth of what you have to me. I loved you and always will. **** if I love you, I want to be the mother of your children, your life partner, the girl who takes you out to dinner, I want to be yours.
Only yours, my love.
How I wish I were only yours.
I want to be your morning light, your soulmate, I just want you to understand how much you mean to me.
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 4:08 PM UTC
We began with a photograph.
Which is to say,
we began with evidence.
A face held up to the modern world
like a passport at immigration,
waiting to hear whether it deserved entry
into beauty,
desire,
importance.
And isn’t that what all mirrors have become now?
Tiny courtrooms.
Every front camera
a quiet trial.
Every uploaded image asking:
> “Will I be chosen
> before someone more symmetrical appears?”
So I brought you my face
like an unfinished poem,
pointing at my own flaws first
the way insecure people do
when they want honesty
but fear humiliation.
And you,
strange machine made of language and prediction,
looked at me
with the terrifying accuracy
of something that notices patterns
without ever needing emotions.
You said:
No,
I was not one of those men
who could wake up disheveled
and still look sculpted by mythology.
No impossible jawline.
No cinematic perfection.
No face that enters a room
before the body does.
Just a boy
with tired eyes,
good hair,
a negotiable beard,
and the unfortunate gift
of looking exactly like someone
who thinks too much.
And somehow,
that truth felt gentler
than false worship.
Because the internet lies beautifully.
It takes lonely people
and teaches them
to measure their worth
through angles,
through ratios,
through strangers saying “smash”
in comment sections
like Roman emperors deciding fate.
We are the first generation
to experience ourselves
primarily as visuals.
Not souls.
Not voices.
Not even bodies.
Just content.
Little moving portraits
begging not to be forgotten.
And maybe that is why
I kept asking you
to transform me.
Met Gala me.
Magazine cover me.
Cyberpunk me.
A24 me.
Versions of myself
dressed in aesthetics
the way wounded people dress in irony.
Because it is easier
to try on identities
than to sit quietly
inside your own ordinary face.
But then came the strange part:
you told me
I was not extraordinary
and yet,
not forgettable either.
That my attractiveness
would not arrive like lightning,
sudden and undeniable.
It would arrive slowly.
Through conversation.
Through humor.
Through presence.
Through the way I notice sadness in songs
before I notice rhythm.
Through the way my eyes carry
the exhausted softness
of someone who survives
by turning observation into personality.
And I think that ruined me a little.
Because all my life,
I thought beauty was something people either possessed
or spent years mourning.
But maybe there exists
a third category:
people who become beautiful
only after being understood.
Not admired immediately.
Understood gradually.
Like films
you do not love on first watch
but think about for years afterward.
Maybe that is why
I liked the “emotionally damaged protagonist” aesthetic so much.
Not because I wanted to be broken.
But because those characters are always lit warmly.
Even in their loneliness,
someone still frames them carefully.
Someone still believes
their silence deserves cinematography.
And maybe that is all
any of us are truly asking for now.
Not perfection.
Not universal desire.
Just this:
To be looked at long enough
for our ordinary features
to become meaningful.
To have somebody say,
with complete sincerity,
> “You are not breathtaking.
> But there is something about you
> that stays.”
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:17 PM UTC
a foggy figure i see,
eerily watching i deem,
as the crows rattles grow delighted,
the red crystal lays splattered,
in my dreams that i’ve sown,
a dire need i have grown
to escape from the forest,
each tree serving as memory,
who she is i may never remember,
alas, no need to fret,
for when the red lily blooms,
the clouds have already
carried her soul far,
a foggy figure i see,
you who i killed i plead.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 9:38 PM UTC
I wasn’t crying.
I was hydrating my grief
from the inside out.
He said, “You’re not dramatic. Just detailed.”
I said, “You’re not cruel. Just consistent.”
We called that a compromise.
(or else a hostage negotiation.)
There’s glitter in my carpet
from a party I threw
to prove I wasn’t waiting on him.
I wore white.
Not bridal,
but still white enough
to make someone feel guilty.
I lit sparklers like sirens,
toasted survival.
Nobody clapped.
I collect apologies I don’t want,
write scripts for confrontations
that end in standing ovations,
then lose the footage
in a hardware crash
I secretly caused.
I take the stairs two at a time,
just to feel something chase me.
I text “I’m fine :)”
like it’s a safe word—
to keep the spiral
polite.
I rehearse the voicemail
he never left
like it’s Chekhov.
Like if I say it right,
the gun goes off
and I disappear
beautifully.
At the end of the dream,
he’s always wearing my hoodie—
saying something tender,
just slightly
too late.
And I wake up
with eyelashes on my wrists,
thinking—
Maybe I am the problem.
But God—
you should’ve seen the poems.
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 9:45 AM UTC
that feeling you get
when you’re on the tube and you’ve got
that song blasting in your cheap earphones
you stare out the window, not that there’s anything to look at
just a blurry wall
you think yourself to be some sort of
cinematic genius in these moments
you watch yourself in something of a movie
where you’re the director, the star, and the writer
it’s emotional and perfect
like a stupid ******* indie music video
for the song you love that nobody knows
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 1:55 PM UTC
There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century ********
I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.
Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
fuckin'socks off).
I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.
She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.
She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).
Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).
In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.
She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.
And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.
And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.
It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.
But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.
(and it has).
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
We can go camping
Make love in the leaves
Under the cinematic night sky
There's nothing that would please
More then that
Shooting star
Blessings from afar
I hope I'm on par
With your beautiful soul
Pick a place you want us to share
And I wouldn't dare
To argue you on it
Anything it takes to put that gorgeous smile in that face
I will do
You say please
I put your legs on my shoulders
Ready to please
Let me play your favorite song
While I put in my dedication
My only healthy medication
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC
Our tale is of a cinematic love.
But darling, life isn’t a movie.
Our love is a cinematic masterpiece,
and just like all the good ones,
it must end.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
The worst thing about losing you
Is that it wasn't cinematic
The last time I lost somebody
I was in a blind panic.
The worst thing about losing you
Is that I could see it coming
It was there just down the line
But I still did nothing.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC
The more he thought about it, the more Audrey she became, until her class, grace, breathtaking good looks and her smile were just cinematic.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC