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Madisen Kuhn Apr 2015
i’ve given up on days that begin in late afternoon,
skipped breakfast and lunch,
days that fade slowly and end with
****** cut-out holes in eyelids because
the second i close them and it all goes black,
every moment with you comes back
played on fast-forward, the memories moving so quickly
that both our faces are blurred
and it feels like everything i’ve ever felt for you
is overflowing the tub, filling the washroom with
suds that take forever to melt

i’ve given up on those days.

i’ve traded them for ones that begin with
sunrises instead of sunsets,
days that are spent falling forward
instead of trying to chase the past, and i don’t
look back and see something broken, or
something that was better off left unopened

i look back and see our bodies so close together
that you can’t tell where yours begins and mine ends,
i see my heart that grew twenty-three times its size,
i see you and me wrapped up in something that
i didn’t know existed outside of blurry 35 mm
and overdue and falling-apart library books
that sit on the nightstands of middle-aged women
who are bored with their lives

and i’m just so happy i got to love you at all.

but i’ve folded up all the days spent with you
and taped them in the messy pages of my journal
and now i’m running into the sun,
running away from every lie that’s trying to
wedge its way in between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction of words like "regret"
and any feeling that insists that none of it was worth it

because all of it was worth it.

every moment we were together pumps
through my veins, and it will always be there;
it will be there when we’ve both graduated,
when you move out west,
when you kiss your family goodnight,
when you sit in your backyard with tears
in your eyes because you’ve lived a life
you are proud of

it will be there when i finally make it to new york city,
when i kiss someone who isn’t you,
when i find the answers you inspired me to search for,
when i sit on my rooftop with tears on my cheeks
because i’ve lived a life fuller than i could’ve ever imagined

and you and i will live these lives apart,
we’ll move on and forget what it felt like
to wake up beside one another;
we’ll find what we’re looking for elsewhere
and we’ll understand why this all had to happen the way that it did

but what we had will always exist somewhere,
in rotting apples and old mail and unplayed mix CDs,
in mosaics that line the city streets, in sirens and
red and white flashing lights that shine through
your window while you are asleep

you and i were magic,
we always will be.
Ugo Nov 2012
Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.

*We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein  
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.
"Closer attention to the character of our age will, however,  reveal an astonishing contrast between contemporary forms of humanity and earlier ones..." --Friedrich von Schiller, "On the Aesthetic Education of Man"

"They asking how he disappear and reappear back on top
Saying Nas must have naked pictures of God or something"---Nas, "Loco-Motive"
Darkness peaks beneath your mask,

Eternal lying smothers your task,

To be accepted by commercial greed,

It stimulates your mindful need,

Of personal gain and broken dreams,

Place your brain inside a guillotine,

To feed your craving for nicotine,

Among the thoughts in your caved-in mind,

The wind tickles your troubles in and out of time,

Your plastic-eyed dolls and cruel songs,

Is a portrait of your desire to walk along,

All the beauties in the magazines,

Drench your face in gasoline,

Ignite a match to force humility,

Upon your flesh and your stupidity,

You used to poke fun at the lifeless on the streets,

Now, take a bite of that forbidden bittersweet,

Juices of past one nightstands and lost lovers,

Enjoy what is less taken to be discovered.

There is an insatiable claim to your brain,

Alongside your coffee, pills, and bags of *******,

Wicked ****, sour *****, and dedicated fake,

It is your bones against stones karma will break.

Liar, cheater, deceptive soul eater,

Tis’ the future in the light of tomorrow’s eyes,

Where in Hell your soul shall eternal lie.
Noah A Baker Jun 2014
It gets... agonizing.
So, very agonizing, and she wonders through the days,
"will it ever end?"
Perhaps, maybe, the divinity of nature
struck down on the undeserving.
A mistake is not a lifetime
                            but a good portion of it
and deep down she knows she couldn't
but each day regrets her decisions
and rubs lamps on nightstands littered with lotto tickets.
To make matters worse, or better,
all around her are visions of joy,
                            happiness, love?
And by accepting her fate,
she embraces, and acknowledges,
that the deed was surely done,
and life in death.
It's been a very long time since I wrote something but here. Thanks for reading. hm.
AprilDawn Apr 2014
Texas early night sky

nightstands
like deserted islands
next to rumpled bed

fake hibiscus in bloom
clipped onto curtains

favorite lip glosses
cradled in basket
on vanity sink

sparkly bead earrings  
displayed   in
see-through pockets
on stuffed closet door

silken blouse draped
on spare chair
awaiting an outing

candy wind  hibiscus
sways in the breeze
a playground for lizards

my face
when I realize
you are looking at me
handsome man
An exercise  from a writing class  using a favorite color  .By this time, I was  noticing handsome men again.
When did I become a ******
I lost my virginity somewhere in between,
Random one nightstands...
And drunken ******
Virginity lost so long ago
Can't even remember why I lost it for
Now I find myself on the delivering end
Of some woman who tommorrow,
I won't even be remembering
I don't want to be misleading
I actually have feelings for these women
But it seems to get ******* at the end of each meeting
Than they just become another notch on my belt,
Which I guess is good
Because it seem like the more notches I get
Seem to prove my manhood
When did I become a ******
Maybe it was in the 8th grade,
When I got addicted to ****
Or when I got to college,
And it became so easy to get a drunk female,
To my dorm
When did I become a ******
When did *** become an addiction
Maybe in high school when all the dudes would brag,
About females they than hit
And I just got tired of listening
So having *** became a mission
When did I become a ******
I guess somewhere in between,
Losing my virginity with my first love
And the women I slept with last night,
Just because
When did I become a ******???
Sinai Apr 2015
But my love
You deserve to be so much more than
Another one of my mistakes
That is not what you were made of

You, my dear
You are the final destination
Utopia
After I broke myself
On unhealthy relationships
And one-nightstands
And all that is left of me
Is my purest self
I will arrive
Ready to be loved by you
Ready to love you too
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
Hello Mom, I'm lost here in IKEA
It's been fun but I may never see you again
They say the arrows point the way
but they've been pointing the way for days
Swedish Meatballs, the only saving grace there is

In the linen section, I've been circling for hours
Waiting for landing instructions from the tower
As big as this place there has to be a runway
In a fog, quickly running  out of power

At a later date, I finally make my way
At the seventh gate, I see Dante wave
As he's pouring over plans assembling a pair of white nightstands
I'll come back and check on him in a few days

In housewares, there are too many cooks in the kitchen
I look around and see something here is missing
The main ingredient, food...still waiting for those meatballs dude
In that special sauce that does more for a man than just glisten

I should have known the way the front door ****** me in
I'd never see my family and friends again
As I wander through the halls of prefab furniture at low cost
My days of sanity are quickly drawing to an end
And even with IKEA's plans, I'll never be put back together again
Claire Collins Feb 2014
omens
crow january's
car wreck
silhouette
cigarette flick
wrist wrung
whiplash
alchemy
astrology
so much language
spooled in bed
a crumpled version of yr head
pill bottles halo nightstands
hands turn fist fight
dry wall patched
concussion
repeat
headache
repeat
release
kiss
glass
lip
mirror
mean it
this time
shrumeling May 2017
Petals
Decorating my bedroom floor.
Lit candles
Flickering upon nightstands.
Our favorite gentle music
Dancing into my ears.
And you're there, too
Waiting upon bed sheets
Silently
Bidding me come.
And as passion befalls me
Cold, frigid water
Rushes down my naked skin.
The warm water exhausted
Brings me back
To sitting in the shower
Alone
I miss you, baby
Jeanette Feb 2015
i.
Watch me in some corner of a dimly lit bar,
you will not recognize me;
I look the same, it's just that
when I laugh my face resembles
that of another woman.
ii.
I left my job 4 months ago and have done nothing but
climb every mountain.
I watch the sun drown the city I hate and
it emerges beautiful, and wavering;
Glowing in the dark is
the only way I know how to love it.

From the top,
I count every room I have ever slept in
one, two, three, four, five, & six;
The only thought I can hold is that
of the spilled cups on wooden nightstands
iii.**
I am selfish, I am endless wasted days.

Sorry for writing you after so long
but I  guess I just miss
the person I was when
you still knew where to find me.
Lenore Lux Nov 2014
You know what sounds nicest?
In your bed lying covers half drawn.
Afternoon bath just as I'm waking up.
Your notes upon nightstands and mirrors.

I hope you understand that I'd do
unspeakable deeds and make deals to
realize this vision --

but I'm only human,
you lecher

I'm not the one distributing kisses
I'm not the one love has found you
in paper and ribbon
I'm a companion for us
lonely ones, called suckers
I'm a ******.
ryan Nov 2016
Edge of the bed, glasses on nightstands,
Clickings of lamps, handfulls of medicine,
Blankets rising, clothes falling,
Darkness falling, eyes adjusting,
Toes curling, laughing ensuing,
Warmth enveloping, snoring crescendo,
Fan spinning, grips tightening.
There is a room.
And in this room there is a man and woman soon to be awake.
On their respective sides of the bed are nightstands with congruent photos.
These two photos are the very fibers that keep their marriage alive.
What kind of bond is held together by pictures?
The kind that includes a 75 year old man and a 77 year old woman.
Both have severe Alzheimer's.
So every morning, they wake as strangers, remembering nothing of the other.
Everyday, they wake to learn each other, only to repeat the cycle the following morning.
They say ignorance is bliss;
But there is a room, and in this room lies the proof  that it's not.
Autumn Mar 2014
The Author's space consisted of lavender walls.
Hardwood Floors.
A stack of books for the night stand.
Coffee stained mugs on the dining table.

It had paintings of all sorts.
Not yet bloomed plants scattered here and there.
An orange Afghan lay across the leather couch.
Muddied boots by the door.

Now the author's house.
A whole other story.
Blank white walls.
White carpeted floors.
Clean tables.
Glass nightstands.

But as the Author wrote in his notebook.
The white velvet couch changed to worn leather.
His Styrofoam cup turned to stained ceramic.
His glass nightstand now old paperbacks.

His  imagination now working wonders.
MC Antone Mar 2016
Fear of it all,
Not knowing when to fall,
Working so hard for far too long,
To have it all go wrong,

Fear of alpha,
We Made scenes,
My ******* is biblical,  

I was flung from the clouds,
For clapping louder than thunder,
He casted us out,
For tugging at his crown,
Because we challenged a throne,
That failed to fold,

Here and now,
Hand selected or arrested whatever’s suggested,
As long as there’s a mic,
I’ll take the stand,
And play witness,

Groping the book oh so popular with hotel nightstands,
And before your bailiff,
I’ll promise my honesty,
Give you false hope, in my sense of loyalty,

Fearing you all
You believe I love to fib,
That’s what you teach your kids,
So do you see the guilt gushing beneath my skin?

Witness to havoc,
The day we set Heaven ablaze,
In the name of Adam,
I promise your honor,
We fought for the liberation of Eve,

But that isn’t what Father preached,

Hand in the prosecutors,
With another on the switch, guess who the defendant is,
Decadence is looking for a conviction,  

The anti-Christ’s came before the Vatican,
He’s of your genetics,

It’s inconsiderate,
You even preached providence,
It’s inconvenient,
To find out your scriptures of full of ****,

Fear of it all,
I was on the sidelines,
And Casted out,

Knowing too much for sainthood,
I tinkered with the watchmaker’s minutes, and was flung from the clouds,

Envious of humans,
But opposed to walls in Eden,
I’ll caress scripture with my finger tips,
I’ll recited your rites of pagans,
And pander to a judge, jury, and all the slaughtered lambs,

He tossed us out,
For tugging at his crown, and falling out of line,

Just a sheep counted before sleep,
But we woke up,  
When we assaulted the Angelic Order,
For fear of it all,

From incubation to graduations,
You’ve been suffocated,
Socially lacerated,
Incapacitated,
By a genre of gimmicks
Governmental deliverance,
Poisoned pulpits of pretenses,
Symbiotically capable of lethally extorting martyrdoms
I watched him rip that rib
  
Fear of you all pulling the plug on me,

I’ve worked so hard for far too long,
To let you lower my corpse,
Beneath entitled toes,

Never finding unity,
Only your sensual weakness for a delusional *******,
Detrimental martyrdoms,
I challenged a throne that refused to fold,

Fear of Alpha,
He casted me out,
To where the brimstone never burns out,  

Foaming at the brainstem,
Unhinged with a taste for their *******,
Fear of you all,
Those that surrendered to bliss,

Now you get my fear of it all,
The day I set heaven ablaze was my ultimately reckoning,
Ignorant because being different required intelligence,
Only now do I see,
Only fools challenge divinity,

A keg stand takes three dipshits,
I challenged Alpha.
Of Beelzebub’s breed,
Falling out of line,
Feeling Gabriel’s heel,
Teacher’s pet had me by the throat.
Lauren Young Feb 2012
more than anything

i’d sit in the greenery

while it wraps up to my knees

and you’ll speak in unfinished messages

and we’ll all glisten with a shining aura

and a mask of invincibility.

the epic drag of nights past will diminish

and bleed out of our pores

as we gaze towards the sun

and

burn white holes into the picture we perceive.

there wont be any eerie waves of emptiness

because the grass will grow into our bones

and flow in our veins

while we feel the soothing abrasions from the

scalding black top beneath our feet.

it’ll warm our souls for eternity

and we’ll feel every heavy word

enter our minds

in different shades of color.

we can find contentment in ourselves

as we scream for an eternal happiness

that fills our lungs with every struggle for air.

surviving will become more real

and will heal our aching bones

and pluck the embedded thorns of regret

from our numb eyes.

we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel content.
we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel real.

the sun will radiate

an incoherent essence

that blesses our eyelids.

we’ll bury the bullets that we kept

on our nightstands

for a rainy day.

i’ll feed the flesh of my sorrows

to the once rabid creatures who lay

in the river banks.

they’ll engulf it like

it once did to me and i’ll

throw my mistakes downstream.
Dark n Beautiful Aug 2013
What do most women wants?

To make love the way they talked
By forgetting all the essential rules of grammar
as they knock over the nightstands
women wants to unfurled their underwire bras and let them breathe
..
Women wants to:
mastering the art of the catwalk
in their favorite pair high heel
Ignoring the jeers and the boos
..
What do most women wants
The opposite of what men wants
Free ***, drugs and money
ryann Aug 2014
Drops of liking
spatter the roof,
oozing their way
through every  

crack to the room
littered with chipped
China teacups, frying
pans, and flower pots

scattered on nightstands,
mantels, and worn
Turkish rugs, desperate to

gather the bits of
affection that might
someday add up to love.
Dane Perczak Feb 2017
Hot iron
Steaming tuition
Wrinkled self-esteem
Door slam in the face of
flattened suits on Mission

Curse the piety
and find another dress
shirt. Crippling anxiety
Inhale to break the stress the
pressure

Sweat stains rise and
morality falls
Break the silence on the
nightstands
Break the vows, break them
all

Look to the sky crying
Wanting pleading
Bargaining again
slowly begging to find hope
somewhere before the time
of dying

And there it was

A whisper

Not an earthquake or a
firestorm
No thunder claps
in fact

Just a whisper
Gently
in the wind it came
through

Speaking softly
speaking slowly

"I Am
With You."
Madeysin May 2015
Shin splints, hit on vintage nightstands,
Already sore from the night before.
Lingerie spilled on the floor, lingering from one of your boy toys. It's okay expensive lip stick & high heels fix everything.
Darling darling darling...
Alexandria Hope Nov 2014
noun: the fact or process of losing something or someone.

The empty chat logs
Turning swiftly to empty bottles
And crackling logs, burned to ashes
You were supposed to feed the fire,
Fire consumed weeks on end
Loss is a pretty spindle poised
For blood, spent on nightstands, on hot iron
Wedding one heart to another
Melting without a soldering gun
Loss is cataclysm
Wrought with despondent accuracy
Loss is alive with the dreams you built with me
For The Creep That Loved You's challenge
kyle henderson Jan 2013
The queen in the castle wants to be like everyone else
Everyone wants to be the queen
Happiness can be bought
And frequently is by
the  normal people, the ones not fit for ruling.
Filling  their apartments with appointments
Building two room castles
TVs nightstands paintings books clothes china
Store bought elegance in place of gold plated mirrors and servants
The queen is confused that anyone would want to be her.  
Everyone else can't understand why she doesn't want to be queen
Anna Nov 2023
Fresh cut flowers–
Bundles of baby’s breath, dahlias and daisies
Hugged together in the jar on my kitchen island,
Straining to find some semblance of sun
As stars twinkle outside,
Hidden beneath the wisps and whirls
Of dancing clouds in the damp, dark sky.
Pinks and purples and whites
Joined together, because… they were pretty at the market–
Lovingly placed one by one to give each flower its moment to shine.
Fresh cut flowers sit
On counters and tables, nightstands and bookshelves,
A thoughtful, cherished, beautiful gift.
They brighten our homes and our lives and
Remind us of love and are reminders of loved ones.
A fragile, wilting, dying reminder.
Pretty for a fleeting moment in time,
Loved while they last, but lasting only long enough for us to notice
When they are gone.
A brief, fleeting season of our lives,
Our fresh cut flowers--
And our loved ones.
When those we love are gone
And our grief is not enough to remember them,
And we leave them fresh cut flowers in the hope
That they know how much we love them,
                                                                ­      Still.
How much we cherish them,
                                                Still.
How often we think of them,
                                                Still.
If grief is what is left when those we love have gone,
When they have gone
And have left a crater in our hearts
That all the fresh cut flowers in the world cannot fill,
When the weight presses in
And our hearts are trapped in our throats
With all the words we wish we could say and have them hear–
Then what happens to our fresh cut flowers?
They are fragile.
They are grief.
They are love.
They are a precious, cherished memory–
They are gone.
Akira Chinen Apr 2017
He had a mouth fool of lies buried behind his mischievous grin and bad intentions waiting in the palms of his fingertips and he walked on two feet but slithered all the same and there was something of a snake coiled in the green of his eyes and he bought three shots of poison to fill the hollow spots of his teeth sharpened and shaped into fangs and left behind a trail of smoke and tears as he walked out onto the street at the hour that smelled of innocence just stepping into town...
She was fresh off the boat and two steps off the bus with a heart full of hope and a head full of dreams and fire streaked golden hair that was all under the protection of a wide rimmed yellow sun hat and her skirt was closer to her ankles than her knees and she wore quite black shoes and solid white stockings and her blouse was plain and simple and revealed little for the imagination to explore and she stood their with the cliché picturesque backdrop of the american dream as the bus rumbled then roared and rolled out of sight...
He had the nose of a blood hound and the heart of a snake and she was a pretty bird singing a song and as small as a mouse with big wide smilng eyes and he had a bait in his pocket and a trap in his jaws and spoke softly and kind leaving his venom to flow silently through the air while wraping and seeping into her skin and she smiled and laughed a deep and clean and genuine  laugh and mentioned she was a peck hungery and needed a the name of an upright and honest hotel with clean sheets on clean beds with well read bibles on the nightstands and he spilled out more poison than truth and said he loved the book and knew a place not too far to sleep that he had even himself stayed at when he first got into town a heartbreak or two before and his favorite twenty four seven day a week dinner was just around the corner which was the only truth he could ever tell and they walked in and took a seat and she smelt what she thought must be magic cooking in the back and stirred stars and sugar and cream into her coffee and they talked back and forth and forth and back as hours passed and he let out a yawn and she apologized for talking too much and he smiled knowing the trap was set and she asked with sincerity and hope if he would walk her to the place he knew and it all almost seemed to easy and he guided her down one street then another and she held his hand along the way and to his surprise an alley before his own she pulled him into the dark and shyly whispered she knew she shouldn't ask but she wanted to know what it was like to kiss such a handsome man that looked a little like he could be mistaken for the devil but before he could oblige her request she had one other favor to ask and that was would he wear her yellow hat because her momma told her never trust a man who wasn't willing to look silly to make her laugh and so he did and before he could scream the hat had chewed and swallowed him down to his knees and by the time it was done all that was left was half a shoe lace and a tooth full of venom and she picked up the tooth and placed it in her purse and patted her hat and placed it back on head and giggled and cackled and laughed as she faded into the night and took her seat back on the bus
mike Sep 2013
when i think of dying
my actual moment of death
i cry.
its then that i think of everyone ive ever loved
and all the things ive known.
but when we die
most of us experience pain
and fear
and think of only our continuation.
of our selfish selves.
and our arms flail about and we moan.
and our arms reach for things on nightstands assuming they are more air.
or blood.
or health.
but we agonize.
and we die.
like poisoned spiders.
in a glass filled with smoke.
and that is our world.
and you live there.
and you may be the man
or the child
holding down the glass.
Silence and shapeless images
Dancing naked on the edge of a sword
We are spinning our breath into meager sediments
And what’s left are my only relationships
Is this my retaliation against the blades of oblivion
Why must I always be eliminated right before illumination
Or the combustion of concrete symbols like carbon atoms
As if my soul was undergoing oxidation
It's unconscious really that the instant we need to be aware
We take a break from concentration and fall into silent reverie
A shining monotony as the moon
Lights the way to our observation towers
We are heavy as daylight and lonely as an empty windowsill  
Whenever the sunlight shines luxuriously upon it
We are human beings doing but just barely used to using
Our unlimited and never-ending powers of imagination
If it's not elation that makes us escape our innocent privations
Then must we be immaculately nascent
Or veritably complacent and understated
In our jogging shoes and self effacement strategies
You have the blues and the reds too
The vibrations echo and they become your only decoration
Mellow and sedated we escape our approximations
By just getting a little more naked and familiar with our shadows
We shake our shoulders and shift our weight back towards the basics
As we get a little older we fold our best napkins in our pockets
And reposition the sockets and the clocks by our nightstands
To tell time just how we would like it to be
Exactly the way it was right before we died to ourselves
Are you understanding my odd way of speaking
Listening to the rhyming water as humid arias fall short of permutations
We are negotiating with contemplation’s namesake
Underlying visitations from our highest escalators
Concentrate and digest, we move forward
And caress the feathery fingers you have bared too often
We are clever and undefinable formulations
Monkeying around with the substrate of our eradication
I speak elated seances and fancy equations
Which underlie our negated vituperations
A Motley array of monkey business
Fizzles in the vaporous mist
It's an evaporative way of saying i love you
We are tender and tangential
We are offended by the examples you forget to administer
In your haste you restate the laziness of a piece of paper towel
To reply to your confessions
Underneath the premonitions you make
Is something that tastes quite a bit like logic
ljr May 2023
bookshelf g(litter)
coffee grounds on fake granite
the surprising immortality of Payless and Ikea
a warm love that zips up and down halls
in and out of respective bedrooms,
where those mismatched mugs
reside on nightstands
Rohan P Oct 2018
your screaming aura,

your ethos:

you're woven into
bedstands and nightstands;

looming sideways,
your head disappears into

a maze of tangled lines.
i've made a mess of us.
Clara Mar 2022
The sun is tired, and the man on the moon rises just in time for his job. He does his tricks and cranks up the lever until the astronomical body beneath his feet rises up and replaces the morning star. Once again, the world is under his dim and sentimental glow.

The people below are turning their lights on, mimicking his surroundings. Oddly enough, every star that surrounds him has a painted name-- each seemed to be owned by a lost soul.

Thousands of people talk to the moon every night, each one full of dreams and wishes. Little do they know that the moon is not a ginny nor a fairy. The moon is simply a light. No more, no less than the lamps in their nightstands.

But the man doesn't mind. He listens to all the stories that he can in a single night. And sometimes, when the night is long, he lies on his back, closes his eyes, and pretends to be a traveler. And the moon is his backpack filled with the stories of the human universe.

A child cries, and the man listens. He seems to be talking about a friend who has fallen into an eternal slumber. He told the moon stories of their adventure each night he couldn't sleep. The child can't help but wonder if his friend could also see a moon in his dreams... If his friend ever thought of talking about him too.

The man in the moon responds but whispers to himself, "In his sleep, he lives a life brighter than those that surround him. The moon will rise as long as the oceans continue to wave, and the birds continue to sing."

As the child grew up, he began to talk to the moon less. On his last visit, the child decided to unhook his anchor. Then after a few moments, he finally decided to sail. The man in the moon listens to the child's last farewell.

"There is a void in my heart where the world revolves just like how it used to... Where the sea would rise and fall in accordance to the moon, where my friend awakes to identify his name in the cosmos."

The man on the moon bids his goodbye. He watched the people below and smiled. He turns to the star on his right and says, "Heaven will never get tired of waiting for good souls."

The star beamed and replied, "I have found my place in the cosmos. Thank you for remembering me."

It is now time for the sun to wake up and do its job. The man in the moon then stood up and walked to his spot. He cranked down the lever, and the moon slowly descended back to its dark place-- a place where secrets glowed in its brightest.
The short story is written in 2019 as an entry to a zine in a college organization. It was written right after our dog & best friend, Jazz died.
Tiger Striped Jun 2021
I never told you how
your room looks just like you.
I can't help but notice its
soft edges and
angles,
and the way the mountains swell
determinedly outside the window
across from your bed.
When it's quiet enough, I can hear
your heart beating like music
from your chest of drawers.
The mismatched knick-knacks atop
your tenderhearted wooden nightstands
and I
watch you as you read, and we
try not to smile
as the lighting obliges
to make you
the central, most beautiful feature.
RobbieG Dec 2021
She knew I hated cigarettes, right down to her nicotine breath, she really wanted to get back, she made threats I would never love again, my heart in her hand, she split it in two right down the middle, now each side placed on her two nightstands, both covered in ashes from her put out cigarettes, not just of hers but her many lovers too, my heart now her ashtrays

— The End —