I am not a complete person.
I constantly search for myself in the people I cherish.
I reason that I could find some worth within myself that way.
A reflection of them I become in order to fit.
Just like a missing puzzle piece I embody the aspects they need in a person.
I become someone else for a brief moment of time.
For a moment I can see someone worth loving.
There is brevity in that way of living.
When everything ends pieces of myself fly away in the wind.
I can see a reflection but I know I have to let go.
Goodbye again, I whisper again.

It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.

It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.

But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.

the call of the void.
I may not speak French,
but I seek the same:
existential freedom,
endless darkness,
eternal peace.