I went to the flat today
The pink light from the red curtains
Colored in the white walls
That held your new life in pictures
And the bed where we laid
Reciting lost poetry to each other
At four in the morning
Contained the same mess
That was made the day you left

I stood still in the middle of everything
And took the deepest breath I could
Before having to go back into the ocean
We all call "the real world"
In that breath, I heard your soft voice
Whispering sweet somethings into my ear,
I felt your hands slowly grip mine,
And the feeling of your loving eyes staring
Into every fiber of my lonesome being
Gave me goosebumps

In that moment, I was calm again
My mind was once again at peace
After all the hours of screaming
After all the days of torture
"****." I said
"I almost forgot to bring home the soy milk"

Less than two minutes
I heard your voice
For less than two minutes today
I hope the sound of it rings in my head
For the remaining 1438 and a half

I miss the air in your apartment
The scent of you and city air fills it up
The calm and the chaos in every inhale

I miss the warm days with cool breeze
Where your lips descended upon mine
And our tongues ran in each others' mouths
Like wild horses over grassy hills

I miss the cool nights with warm breeze
Where our minds ascended into the stars
While bottles of craft beer and odd mixes
Gradually declined into emptiness

I miss you.

The darkness disguised as light that is life creeps slowly into my spine like water dripping down a rain gutter after a storm. The reality in the air fills my lungs like twenty cigarettes all smoked in a dimly-lit stairwell on a Tuesday afternoon. I exhale as hard as I can, but the reality ceases to leave my being. It carves into my windpipe like a tiger's paw, ripping it into shreds as gravity pulls it back down.

I take a look at the calendar. A calm font reads December 24. I feel nothing. There is no cheer or happiness lingering in the supposedly cool December breeze. It used to fill the air with the scent of gingerbread and mint, but all there is now is the smell of rotting garbage, sun-dried ****, and the occasional stench of ****.

False smiles are painted across coffee shop windows. Bright lights that distract you from the world are wrapped around the trees. Mary gives birth to Jesus on each manger atop each building. It all still feels blank. The magic is gone. The false smiles frown at me. The luster of each bulb of each string of light has faded into a bland dullness. What lies atop the buildings are dead eyed statues.

Where has it all gone?

it's a hot day
in mid-December
as well
the world
(as we know it)
has gone
even more
topsy-turvy

Decembers used to be cold
like heartbreak after a date
or a cold shower at 4 a.m.

there isn't much around
besides the ceiling, the floor,
and the four walls that confine me
while the not-so-soothing sounds
of motorcycles pass by
my cage with silver bars
that i like to call my house

i miss you
and the summer's warmth
you bring when nights are cold
and the October breeze you have
when the days are hot

I am back in the cycle.
The back and forth
And back again
Of the silent non-silence
Of this filthy city life.

I wake up in the bed
I laid in the night before,
Rise up to take a liquid ****
And retreat once again
Into the blanketed dome
That is my mattress.

The sun shines through
The cracks in the seemingly
Single piece of colored cloth
That we call curtains
And seep in through the fabric
Of the actual single piece of cloth
That we call blankets.

When the ****** star's light
Is more than bearable, I take away
The blanket from my face
And face reality as it is
From the cool and calm not-peace
That is my room covered in sunlight.

A few more hours
Worth of wallowing in not-happiness
Would be very sufficient
To start the "day".
A few more hours
Adjusting to the hellish yellow light
That blinds my eyes,
But frees them from the darkness
At the same time.
A few more hours
To plan the next few hours
Only to not follow the plan
And once again act on impulse
The same way I did yesterday.

Come with me
Through the noise
And the disarray

The deafening tones
Of screaming children
And dying adults
(Millennials probably
We both know
That they never
Shut up)

The world
Around ourselves
Is a path
Of broken glass
Atop coal embers,
So I beg you
To hold my hand
And walk through them
With me