on pages
and hands
our love
around and around
we draw
and draw
until all your ink ran out,
and now I'm but a line
drifting on a blank canvas.

It is what it was

It was just because

that's how it's always been

Now

It's not what it should be

nevermind could be

yet here we go again

going outside nowadays is just a game of
who can hold their breath the longest and of
looking for reasons to pass the time in your
own backyard but the gardens i see are only for
the literary muses haunting writers into submission
and for digging up holes with plastic shovels and
for wishing that i could pick up the daisies
and place them in your hair

i was in the middle of drawing a circle when
my arm quivered and now the line shoots
way past the paper and it's currently
undulating over my desk and zooming past
a caterpillar that's contemplating whether the
process of becoming beautiful would actually
make him beautiful when he already knows
that he is beautiful

i hope the god i pray to forgives me for
making all the lines i write be about you

she is pointlessly running in circles
desperately searching for definite answers
she cannot help running in circles
knowing full well that she has run out of chances

your lips are bleeding
somehow the attraction persists
a dream awoken and the realization only
makes the sunrise that much louder
exhausted like a different direction
and the destruction was intentional
starting the next part
one round in the chamber
coming and relapsing into it all
like a year ago
nothing is a song
i am pretending to walk in circles
not taking to you
calling out
no echo
it's all fabrication
the lost distance in your eyes
this is all textbook insecurity
a shared life experience
it's still hard to hear your shadow
it's  unsupportive and I'll remember the final seconds
and meaning is not important