but to be known is a different story altogether;
to be known is to be loved.

my mind a blur, but
that cafe in reykjavík crystal clear. as if
stuck in that moment, doomed and trapped.
it was but a flash of clarity -
brilliance! -
of peace. sun shining(crisp air)
desperately clinging to the memory that is all but
when i close my eyes and surrender to the void.

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

not in riddles but in lyrical ballads.

let us dance under the moonlit sky
cold water beneath our feet
eyes closed, swaying in silence

address unknown.

you said that i was the most exotic flower;
but flowers wilt
and flowers die.

what now?

i miss the sound of your voice echoing around the emptiness of your barren room

you reading your favourite poems in hushed tones as if whispering sweet nothings into my ear

i miss the mellow beat of your heart, the rise and fall of your chest, and your warm breath on my face

you were an unfortunate walk in the dark. I clasped ever so tightly to the rope that I thought would lead me to - you -. Instead, it led me to a you - one that was overwhelmingly underwhelming; one that taught me that words mean almost nothing; one that showed me that complete breakdowns fraught with tears, justifications, and empty promises are nothing but a B-grade actor's (one that almost fooled me) attempt at putting on his best show. I was desperately waiting for someone to toss me that lifeline and pull me out of that wreckage. But the sad and undeniable truth is that they probably just thought I was part of the wreck.