"consonants" poems
To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
And no future;
There is only the past,
Brittle with relics,
Wind-bitten towers and castles
With sham ghosts;
Mouldering quarries and mines;
And an impotent people,
Sick with inbreeding,
Worrying the carcase of an old song. To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
And no future;
There is only the past,
Brittle with relics,
Wind-bitten towers and castles
With sham ghosts;
Mouldering quarries and mines;
And an impotent people,
Sick with inbreeding,
Worrying the carcase of an old song.
20.5k
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.
a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
it is an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences,
and our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
You woke me in the thin dawn.
Like a riot of rain in a bleached dry summer.
small green shreds of shrub sprang from my heart
as tumbling birdsong might litter the long pale sky.
your voice came drifting through the shallow line
And I let the sound seep like a soft assault on my senses.
I hear the words and picture your lips
Folding around the consonants like a dance.
I hear your breath carry the words and taste the phrases
That linger on your tongue as if to speak them in a kiss
These words that spin this cloth of gold in whispered utterings
This silken tease with a wild sprinkle of kisses and anatomy.
And would my words soften your eye and entice your body
With fevered adventures seeking to be sated with a touch?
Could you taste the blessings erupting from my tongue?
Would you ache inside far beneath the longings of the flesh?
It seems that every cell is sighing a simpering listless want
to be captured by the haunting breath of a lover’s call.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
To Struga Festival Golden Wreath Laureates
& International Bards 1986
Stand up against governments, against God.
Stay irresponsible.
Say only what we know & imagine.
Absolutes are coercion.
Change is absolute.
Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.
Observe what's vivid.
Notice what you notice.
Catch yourself thinking.
Vividness is self-selecting.
If we don't show anyone, we're free to write anything.
Remember the future.
Advise only yourself.
Don't drink yourself to death.
Two molecules clanking against each other requires an observer to become
scientific data.
The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal
world after Einstein.
The universe is subjective.
Walt Whitman celebrated Person.
We Are an observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.
Universe is person.
Inside skull vast as outside skull.
Mind is outer space.
"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound."
First thought, best thought.
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.
Syntax condensed, sound is solid.
Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.
Consonants around vowels make sense.
Savor vowels, appreciate consonants.
Subject is known by what she sees.
Others can measure their vision by what we see.
Candor ends paranoia.
Kral Majales
June 25, 1986
Boulder, Colorado
5.5k
lying awake
and looking for all of the answers
in my ceiling.
asking why
it has to be me who feels this way
(feeling completely lifeless, and absolutely hopeless)
asking You
“haven’t you taken enough from me?”
“why must you haunt my dreams?”
and the only bit of light i have
comes from the streetlight by my window,
it shines on You.
and from the corner i hear You,
with a vacant and harrowing tone.
and the detached vowels and consonants
echo throughout the hallways.
they hang themselves on the wall
as a reminder.
“they say nothing kills a man faster than his own head”.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
I can feel the loneliness deep inside
the half-shaped moon, stripped, scorched, destroyed,
shifting, scrambled diction, hazy nonfiction, drifting
consonants and vowels lingering in meaningless
frames, confined in a sleepless state, searching for
its missing outer being to make it complete,
quivering in solemnness, struggling for freedom
and perfection, conflicting science crumbling without
reason, evaporating equations swallowed into unfamiliar
places, sunken history tumbling into the depths of the abyss,
disconnected from the great milky clouds and glorious
sun, its wandering metaphors hovering in some unknown
distant kingdom, in the depths of a solitary dungeon, dying
of its creative invention, broken sounds sluggishly surfacing
for air, fading shadows seeping further out into the inner wave
of Saturn, its decaying reflection changing between time
and space, rising and falling in forgotten eternities,
declining in rhyme and harmonizing patterns,
as shattered lovers diminish apart from one another,
locked away in frigid and featureless mazes, drowned galaxies
floating in sinking outer spaces, vivid blackness surrounding
its sunken design, lost languages falling apart into split and hidden
dimensions, swimming in stuttering syllables across the crimson seas.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
summer nights—cold soul
drunken anecdote
the flow of ink so delicate
to massacre the old for the new
winter morning—warm hands
littered streets
the sound of your vowels and consonants
just the right consistency
chiseled gravestones—life in your eyes
sound of footsteps
the burn of your last words to me
inverted and sweet
the universe owes us no due;
the six minutes i treasured you—
Paradise, 2018
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind
felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it
there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter
words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
applying his
lingual buds
to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
as a lava lake,
no stone skipped
just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
pounding thunder
in consonants of
taut skin drum
nuances in vowels
uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
before time
now ready
to be filled by the
essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
apart
heart
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
I'll admit I didn't notice it
the first time I saw you
there was mystery wrapped around your fingers
and silence that sliced the air
I did not expect the flash of a helmet
I saw for that half split second
but as the hands moved on I saw a glimpse of
the warrior in you.
Tattooed on your feet
are the stars of the sea,
but you keep them hidden
in black socks and high topped rubber shoes
maybe you're scared of stepping on broken glass
you've cut yourself before, I know
but if you keep your feet sealed in
walking on familiar paths
you'll never know what it feels like
to have warm sand in between your toes
or on fresh grass, dampen your soles
don't be afraid of pain, for I know that there is
the warrior in you.
Your name means messenger.
I looked it up.
You don't say as much as the others
to me at least,
but when you do
you leave fingerprints in the air and
maybe you think that your words don't matter much
but believe me, they've planted seeds
and those seeds are growing
and your messages don't just come in
consonants and syllables, but in the way you
open doors and tap shoulders,
the way you hold your head,
hold it high, because there is
the warrior in you.
You have lived through many battles
I see it in your eyes.
I hope your heart doesn't grow heavy when
you lose one, because the war's
already been won.
Learn to trust, soldier,
you'll always need backup.
And when it seems like
dawn will never come,
I hope you'll remember
the Warrior in you.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
Which Is Greater?
I break a vow.
A serious vow.
In a place, in this site,
Where the fluid pain
Is the water of the world,
The element that is crux,
The amniotic liquor of creative flux,
The morning juice,
The afternoon caffe,
The first beer of the day,
The liquid that we rinse and spit out our every day,
I will write about pain,
Arrogantly, as if there is any unused combination of
Letters, vowels and consonants left unspoken, *****
Having sworn not to, for pain is cumulative.
Asking myself,
Which is greater?
The pain of creation, inception, origination and birth,
The pain of wreck and ruin, destruction and death.
Homework Self-Assignment: Compare and Contrast
Suddenly, I am expert.
Creating a poem a day is very painful.
A poem that is the sum of
Reflection, research, and purging.
Once I wrote:
*The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.
The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.*
Suddenly, I am expert.
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown,
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
she ever possessed to the atmosphere,
One breath at a time.
Is that painful?
It is for me.
Now you complain. They're different, not to be compared, et cetera.
Pain is pain,
Whether it is in the service of creation, or
Creative destruction.
Once I wrote:
*With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poem's birth diminishes me.*
So, one and the same?
Nope. Yes. But. Cannot one be the greater?
Yes, one is greater.
When I lay on my deathbed,
I will exhale the answer
Into the atmosphere
For your retrieval.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
Your telepathic soul
Greets mine
On an April night
When the moon rises
Blue against black
Like the bruises
Still left on my back.
You make my words f
a
l
l
off a c
l
i
f
f.
I stumble, searching for them
in fields of violets.
Once collected, the consonants, the verbs, and more
pour from my mouth this:
"My arms explore you
Like apples explore orchards;
I reach a higher state
When your cedar oak lips
Meet my pale birch ones
in twilight.
You scare away the shadows of insecurities
That come alive on my wall at night.
You turn my life into bright acrylics and oils
Too vivid for fingers to paint.
I never expected to
Swim under the influence of you."
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
Poetically vibrating
Intensely radiating
Broken letters synchronistically mating
I love the way I am matchmaking
It's scintillating
A river rush of vowels are grating
Against consonants that were waiting
Sentence structure upraising
And then
I am only making
An attempt at escaping
This world
That is wasting
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
God
Might move the deadline
For our Chinese script
But I'm still mad at him
For keeping me up
At the grand hour of 11
In the evening graphing
Over (and over)
Again business charts that
Have crooked smiles almost
As blank and bleak
As their returns on investment.
And speaking of which,
This extra eighty grand I spent
At this school, ogling at textbooks I could
Never work up the courage to read,
Is finally starting to break my back.
Weakly, I'll tell you
How much I hate school—
How her consonants sound synonymous
To "scoliosis,"
And peel off my shirt and prove it to you
But that would be careless.
And careless is something in me hand-bound
By iron clad futures and
Graying dreams,
Perhaps that of a dead stock broker
Feet dangling off the roof of
The Philippine Stock Exchange,
And even then that's
Straying too far from home:
A cardboard box business
Resting by a
Tuberculosis-riddled sea.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
i never really know what to say
how to say it, and how to get the heavy
vowels and consonants off my tired tongue
in an equal demeanor
and no matter how much i plan it,
no matter how much i skim my
hands through seemingly silky waters,
words become rigid
as they roll helplessly
out of my cardboard mouth
i want to be clean and straightforward
clear and understandable
but i always seem to come out as
a jagged line or illegible handwriting
my mumbled words and thoughts
that lay behind my paper thin skull
stand still like secrets
in whispering houses under the moon
and they beg to be let out
i only wish i could speak as easily as i write
because words have much more meaning
when they are finally let out of cages
made of paper and pen
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
“instructions on how to destroy yourself from the ground up, and vice versa”
i say i think i am a better ghost-- and she says, *dont be so cliche
this isnt a fairytale, this isnt Wonderland*
, but i was born shoving the barrel of a gun down my throat like it was someone else’s tongue
and after a while they start to taste the same
less like a herald and more like sour lips curling around a sentence over and over “nobody exists anymore
welcome to the Forgotten era--”
swallowing glass just so my throat wont feel so empty
when she kisses me she says shes sorry
when she says my name it sounds like a swearword, like her mouth is too brittle to sound it out right
“instructions on how to build the perfect barricade”, start with enough wood to burn yourself to the ground
start over. start over. start over.
(seventeen crumpled dollars and a neon sign that says WELCOME TO PARADIS, comical in a way that makes a nine year old on a too-small bike start crying)
We Need To Talk / cutting your bangs uneven with a pair of scissors you found in an abandoned building / LACHRYMAL: CONNECTED WITH WEEPING OR TEARS
“instructions on how to change the way your name sounds”
i bleed empty promises,call people in the middle of the night just to say that I’m Fine
(i dont even remember the last time i ****** awake coughing up consonants, trying to
rebuild myself, i swear!)
she says my name right and it’s a tuesday. there are guns on a basement wall twenty miles away
, and it’s raining outside
, and she tells me she likes the way it sounds
(she swallows it whole)
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
I ask what your favourite word is.
You say you don’t have one, and
I don’t understand.
See. I’m a poet.
I tried hard not to be,
Rejected it with every
Fibre of who I am but
Words form in ways I can’t
Negate.
See,
You speak and I notice
There’s more in what you say than
You know.
Your voice is delicate,
Not in the way you sound words
But the way you phrase sentences,
Like the subject is something to be
hidden behind premises.
Some people grab chance by the throat,
****** you right into the center,
Until you’re drowning in meaning
And unable to listen to anything but the
Beat,
B-,
Beat,
Of your heart but
Not you.
I can respect that.
You’re all tact and logic and
It’s not about feeling
It’s about thought process and
I still don’t understand.
See, my tongue is clumsy,
It stutters and stumbles and smashes its way through life,
But it finds meaning where there isn’t any,
Notes how you say “Spoke”, not “talked”,
How you dance through every word in the English language because
Deciding on the right one
Has to be perfect.
I think that,
You are perfect.
My favourite word is puddle.
I don’t know why, but
When I say it, my tongue kicks
my teeth and
It reminds me of the way my
Consonants get heavier with
******* in my brain.
It makes language ridiculous,
Because the end of its vowel is so sudden
It should cut
But it’s so ******* round.
Puddle.
I can’t explain, not in words,
But I smile when you say it and
I promise you that sometimes
language is less about logic
And more about that feeling
in your gut
When you look
at me and verbs flow out of your mouth
And for once you’re not thinking
And, -
"I love you."
If you thought, it wouldn’t be true and -
"I love you."
Cogs whir to a halt and,
"I love you."
I don’t trust you for a second because
My mind is now skipping stones across oceans
Waiting for depth to show, yet
There’s nothing below,
but still,
Sail away with me.
Let’s leave language behind and use touch to define
The borders between where I start
And you stop.
We’ll find they’re less obvious than we’d thought,
Because I love you.
Not in the way that I say it but
In the way that your presence makes my stomach churn out musical notes
And I was broken, but I don’t want to seem desperate and
I guess that when you say you that don’t have a favourite
I realise,
Puddle’s a scapegoat.
My favourite word is whatever name you’d give for the
Goosebumps on your skin when I touch you.
My favourite word is the colour of your eyes.
My favourite word is the way your voice goes real high when you’re excited.
My favourite word is how I can feel where you touched my flesh, for days after we last met.
My favourite word
Is you
But I’m too shy to say it.
So here, take puddle,
And run away with it.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
this cracking open
ripped sail
widespread fingertips, broken nails
inside an effort is intention
inside intention is a story, experience
& all these lessons I've learned
are getting used up forcefully
is this the way it's supposed to be?
cause it feels strange
*when do Ravens sleep
& what does that feel like?
where did I go?
I think I know something.*
wild nights, bending and stretching
bending & bleeding
I'm tired of feeding on this word
eating syllables
I am not hungry for
constantly
unconsciously
incessant counting consonants
four letter words
for poor pleasured girls
honestly
we're all crawling sideways
a billion different sidewalks
searching for what -
leftover organs, trace-lines
another time, some other life
another night
keeping quiet
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
my words gathered near the drain
too big to saunter through
a shallow pool of empty vowels and consonants
ceramic reflecting back
shiny white room for more
big black letters
to be vomited up
another time
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Vanilla vowels
and creamy colored consonants
Naughty or nutty nouns
of almonds, apples, apricots
Aphrodisiac adjectives
and very berry adverbs
Passion fruit phrases
pirouette like peaches in thought
A pomegranate patter
that pronounces a pronoun
Or perhaps in veiled vines
velvet verbs purr
Wondrously whipped
words of love
Salacious sentences
with strawberry stirred
A mellowed musk melon
of a metaphor
A salubrious simile
sits like a sapote crown
Amorous alliterative adventures
with romance and raisins
An ooh la la of orange oomph
onomatopoeic sounds
An orchard of the alphabets
in a fruity potpourri of speech
A bearish pearish play and
plum pun on words
The language of love
written with love
In this hash mash
bonhomie
Valentine verse
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
the criminal element is lost
have you fought with your boss
each day is fraught with challenges
but that's what makes you stronger
all along the water's edge
the waves break and connect
like threads of poetry
lines of beauty
curving at the moon
luminous intrusions
before we are fallen
dreams seethe
with colorful landscapes
and i am a blade of grass
threads of astral fire
aspire for the sun
my magic is beyond recognition
it ignites the silence
and burns bright as day
words are living
breathing entities
families of sounds
consonants and vowels
are relatively harmless
unless you dare
to speak them out loud
control your tone
and let aspiration resonate
this assonance is rather transient
so lets embrace our scansion
mansions of impermanence
lands of intransigent transients
its tragic really
how the lead of vehemence
can spread so rapidly
sentient powers stake their claim
in soil that remains dutiful
despite your shame
have we gone insane
its quite likely
or are we still the same
that remains to be questioned
better to drop this game
and keep up your crazy vision quest
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
Expatriots await the nights in Kuwait
where the dingoes and dominoes and salamanders bait
the ladies in purple to their eminent doom
of sleazies and stabbings and babies in womb.
Don't get me wrong,
I enjoy a good time, if friends are around and we got a dime
or two
and a fire for the masses and we're shaking our *****
as if we are actually aware of the outcomes of our actions.
I know we haven't the slightest clue
what a Jesus Christ is, or if it hides under our beds at night
or if it was a Jew.
What's written in books can be written by crooks,
because literacy and knowledge are ******* beautiful
but can give one more confidence than the world has to share,
and the whole theory of Relative Pride falls to pieces when one has more self-efficacy than ability
and the children with their sweet little ideas and purity are not humble but fall victim to humility.
So what's in a name?
Letters, vowels, consonants and connotations
traffic tickets, family vacations
****** and protests (though not necessarily related)
teenage boys and ***** minds and those who have masturbated.
But who hasn't?
Those without names, or faces
or honesty or hands
probably have their members tied up in steel-spiked rubber bands.
I'll see you again in retox dehibilitation
and we can converse and create
while under the crutch of sedation.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that only the heartbreak is good enough
to qualify as poetry.
all the roller-coaster rush
and the picnics on the hill
and the first time your hands brush together
on your first date and they take yours
to fill the gaps between their finger,
and the aimless walks looking for
somewhere to eat
and the first time they said i love you
but it wasn’t perfect
so they’d written you a poem
because that seemed closer
to perfect
than those three words —
somehow, at some point,
all of these gets overlooked
like words in a history book
he wouldn’t read even if he was stuck with it in a dream.
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that it is falling in love with a stranger
who writes poetry at 8 am or 10 pm, hoping
to find his lover back in front of him
when he reaches the last word and raises up his head.
it is falling in love
with someone whose walls seem to echo
the first time they said i love you
three years ago,
it is falling in love with someone
who could still be writing about the love of his life
and sometimes, the consonants
in her name
look like the
vowel in yours
but it’s not you, honey,
sometimes,
it’s just
not you.
he said i shouldn’t mistake
falling in love with his words
for falling in love with him,
so i thought
how could that be, when his words
were the words i wanted to kiss?
how could that be, when he was
the poetry i wanted to read?
one time,
i asked him if he would write me a poem
if he ever fell out of love.
and he said he would never fall out of love.
and he did.
without any warning —
without any melancholic farewell,
or messy kisses on the kitchen floor,
or desperate pleads for us to stay.
he fell out of love with me —
without writing any heartbreak poem;
but then again, maybe it was because
all heartbreak poems, even if it was us falling apart,
would still be written for you.
the night he left,
he forgot to take his poetry collection
all written in the tattered pages
of that black notebook i got him,
and it was full of pages folded in halves
and it was full of your name in lazy scribbles
and it was full of his words
wanting you back.
it was the night we broke up
yet it was still you, breaking his heart —
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
he loved me.
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
i was you.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC