#viralpoetry
We do not meet. And yet,
the sun that warms your skin this morning
is the same sun that finds me sitting here,
touching the places where the light
still remembers you.
The rain that soaks your hair,
that runs down your neck, your wrists—
it finds me too.
It fills the hollows of this room,
washes the dust from things I haven't moved,
things I haven't said.
We are both touched by the same water.
We just never stand in it together.
The moon that follows you home at night
is the same moon that sits with me
when sleep won't come.
It has seen you turn in your sleep.
It has seen me not turn at all.
It knows everything
and tells nothing.
And the sky—
the same sky that holds your clouds,
your birds, your quiet—
holds mine too.
Same blue.
Same vastness.
Same silence.
You are not far.
You are everywhere except here.
The light reaches you first.
Then it travels.
Then it arrives at my door,
worn out,
as if it has crossed a country
instead of just a street.
We do not meet.
But the space between us
has learned my breathing.
It knows when I think of you—
because it tightens.
We do not meet.
But the distance between us
has learned my body perfectly—
the way a scar knows
the blade has left.
We are two people
living in the same world,
touched by the same sun,
soaked by the same rain,
watched by the same moon,
held by the same sky.
And still—
still—
we do not meet.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 5:40 PM UTC
I was a god once,
but I got bored
and turned myself into a girl
just to see what it felt like
to bleed on a schedule
and be underestimated at CVS.
I used to throw comets for fun.
Now I throw up from anxiety
and pretend it’s acid reflux.
I traded omniscience for online shopping.
Traded lightning bolts
for a Bic lighter
I keep losing in other people’s cars.
I used to be prayed to.
Now I pray I don’t get ghosted,
pray my Amazon Chase card wasn’t hacked,
pray I remember why I walked into the room.
I’ve lived for centuries.
You can tell by the way
I roll my eyes at time.
My bones know Latin.
My knees speak Morse.
My spine hums with prophecies
I keep forgetting to write down.
I was a god once.
But now I’m just really good at parties.
Really bad at sleeping.
Really into ChatGPT conversations
and spending 40 minutes at a time
inside my ear canal
with an inner-ear camera from Shein.
II watch body-cam arrest videos at 3AM
and wonder if I’d beg prettier on camera.
Sometimes everything that comes out of me
smells burnt.
I think I’d make a good Saint,
so I keep my eyes open for miracles—
but I only feel fire in my bones
when I’m overstimulated.
And I feel really sleepy the rest of the time.
I still have revelations,
but they only happen when I’m doom-scrolling.
I still search for splendors,
I just call them coping mechanisms now.
I make eye contact with hawks.
I smell rain before it happens.
I know who’s going to text me
before they do.
Then they don’t.
Sometimes I float—
but only in conversations.
I leave my body at least once a day.
Usually in traffic.
Sometimes while folding laundry.
Always when someone says,
“You don’t seem like the type to cry.”
I was a god once.
And now I’m this.
A walking myth in leggings.
A fallen star with a Dollar Tree receipt so long
it reads like scripture.
Don’t worship me.
Just don’t interrupt me
when I’m talking to the moon.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 9:37 AM UTC