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I have become an expert in the archaeology of heartbreak, I sift through the dust of last week’s sheets, find a single black thread from your sweater and crazy enough I didn’t throw it away, I winded it around my finger until the circulation stops because the numbness is a familiar kind of feeling. They tell you that grief is a river, you just have to go through it But they don't tell you about the tide, They don't tell you that some days you are a strong swimmer cutting through the current with clean efficient strokes, And other days you are just driftwood, Waterlogged, Spinning ,Quietly falling apart in the middle of the grocery store, because the oranges are the same shade as the sunset we once watched from fire escape. It’s in the details, you see. The small, stupid, savage details. The way the world keeps spinning its cruel, cheerful circle. The barista still asks, “How’s your day?” The sun still rises like a golden, indifferent alarm clock. The planet rotates on its axis, a perfect, uncaring machine, while I am here, learning to be a planet myself, Learning to hold my own gravity, Learning to spin without you. Because that’s the second act, isn’t it? The one they don’t write songs about, It’s not the fury. It’s not the tears, It’s the morning you wake up and the first thing in your head is not his name, but the smell of coffee, It’s the terrifying, quiet, radical act of continuing. It’s the moment you catch yourself. You are falling, yes. The ground has given way. The air is rushing past, And in that free fall you stop looking for a hand to hold. You stop waiting for a voice to tell you it’s okay, You look down through the blur of clouds and the ache of altitude and you see… you have wings Not feathers, not flight, Just a furious, hard-won knowledge that you were built to survive the impact. So let the world keep its cheerful, stupid circle. I am building a new orbit. I am the archaeologist of my own becoming now And I am no longer sifting through dust, I am excavating bedrock.
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May 14
May 14, 2026 at 7:22 AM UTC
The Archaeologist of My Own Becoming
I have become an expert in the archaeology of heartbreak, I sift through the dust of last week’s sheets, find a single black thread from your sweater and crazy enough I didn’t throw it away, I winded it around my finger until the circulation stops because the numbness is a familiar kind of feeling. They tell you that grief is a river, you just have to go through it But they don't tell you about the tide, They don't tell you that some days you are a strong swimmer cutting through the current with clean efficient strokes, And other days you are just driftwood, Waterlogged, Spinning ,Quietly falling apart in the middle of the grocery store, because the oranges are the same shade as the sunset we once watched from fire escape. It’s in the details, you see. The small, stupid, savage details. The way the world keeps spinning its cruel, cheerful circle. The barista still asks, “How’s your day?” The sun still rises like a golden, indifferent alarm clock. The planet rotates on its axis, a perfect, uncaring machine, while I am here, learning to be a planet myself, Learning to hold my own gravity, Learning to spin without you. Because that’s the second act, isn’t it? The one they don’t write songs about, It’s not the fury. It’s not the tears, It’s the morning you wake up and the first thing in your head is not his name, but the smell of coffee, It’s the terrifying, quiet, radical act of continuing. It’s the moment you catch yourself. You are falling, yes. The ground has given way. The air is rushing past, And in that free fall you stop looking for a hand to hold. You stop waiting for a voice to tell you it’s okay, You look down through the blur of clouds and the ache of altitude and you see… you have wings Not feathers, not flight, Just a furious, hard-won knowledge that you were built to survive the impact. So let the world keep its cheerful, stupid circle. I am building a new orbit. I am the archaeologist of my own becoming now And I am no longer sifting through dust, I am excavating bedrock.
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34
I look to the crescent moon Until i can look no more Until it breaks my heart Knowing that there are miles between us Knowing that we are worlds apart
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Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 1:30 PM UTC
The crescent moon
I find joy in pain Pain in my actions Actions after my decisions Decisions I didn’t want to make Making up my mind When I didn’t want to I didn’t want to choose Choose between you You or my tears Tears that flooded my smile My smile That followed after your voice The voice That gave me joy In pain
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Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 1:33 AM UTC
Rotation