Blood Dripping From Your Lips Like Sweet Poison, Hands Shaking (who's Hands Are Steady After A Crime?).

You’d think if time was drugged, futile seconds would wander till ether stilled hearts choking through echoing forever the roads we never walked remain trapped in the mirror house we find ourselves in, which is better, delirious visions against the never becoming futures? or bashing our heads fruitlessly against foreign reflections? screaming our voices hoarse, till the counted seconds come back home.

nothing ever feels the same. that is the horrible cliche everbody hears, and years down the road they realize, huh, the pain stopped. but the road, the road, what of it? you wake up every morning, for 7 consecutive sundays and realize, oh it's stopped, has it stopped? the eighth sunday is however bad, you wakeup with a picture of how his head would rest right on top of yours. and just like that, it's back to square one.

it's been 5 years and I still remember your birthday. I don't think I'll ever forget it to be honest. it's been imprinted in my brain and every year around the start of fall, I think of you. and I know I'll be having the same thoughts in 10 years time and we'll still be miles away.

How could you possibly miss someone who isn't corporeal, without shape, without form? I miss him as the sun rises and as it sets. His hands I imagine, hold my face, our ghostly figures fitting together in a perfectly unearthly embrace. He's stunning, he's my darling, more than the boy walking me home ever could be, yet I've never seen his face. He might just be the best my mind has ever made, dethroning the poetry, the equations, the conclusions, my most brilliant manifestation. so sweet, so mature, he always seems to know what I feel before I tell him my thoughts. He knows me better than I know me, and every night we talk, the weights lift, the fog clears and I sleep hugging his shape. I know, I know, if I ever sought to hold his hand, I'll come away with ash and smoke, yet not without knowing our fingers would mold so perfectly together. I search for his face in every boy I meet, he is my voyeur in an empty gallery, he sits behind my eyes and I only hope I don't fall asleep before I meet him tonight. I know not your name, your face, your voice, the color of your hair, your touch. but I do know your gait, your grammar, the food you make, your sigh, your feel, your embrace and know, you're everything I could possibly want. what else is there to falling in love?

Does he love the stars?

Maybe he'll love you like he loves the stars. Maybe he tells the stars about you like how he tells you about the stars. Maybe he'll remember every scar and freckle like he remembers the names of those supernovas thousands of light years away.

"asshole" i try to call you with all the conviction i can muster. how dare you tell me about her? I hate you i repeat and i repeat it till i'm sick. will saying it enough make it true?

exam season again y'all

I don't annotate much in books, and yet if it was him? I'd underline every letter. the margins would be complete with my handwriting (I hope). I'd highlight all of him, every single page.

her i don't know who she is, but i know you've got a new her now. do you make her laugh? or worse, does she make you laugh? is she just as cynical as I was or is she just as bright as you are? you told me you got into college and all I could think was, does her hair curl downwards too? (congratulations) does she read and leave little notes in books or does she actually watch studio ghibli movies with you? god, do you guys fight? fight about whether everything you have is just a well balanced chemical reaction, about everything and nothing at all? are you happy? how did you move on? why do you still care? It meant the world to me when it happened, was it really just another sunday to you? I hope she's everything you actually deserve. no I can't possibly wish that for you. I can't hate you. I miss you terribly. I can't keep talking to you. I wish we were still friends. I wish we could be friends.

How pitiful it must be to be god don’t you think? A ray of sunshine or a dirtied tile of hope? What is more utterly dehumanizing than being kept alive through desires? Doesn’t that make god a woman? Your lovely creatures, whom you created to love, when in reality they are but your hopes, not you theirs, what else will keep you immortal? No, I believe you were human once, and I believe immortality is the greatest curse, because this is what you end up as. A concept that cannot touch, an entity that cannot feel, the saint who cannot learn, a barren figment of what it is to be without curiosity. Wouldn’t you like to be free from it? But then again, if you’re cursed with knowing what is left for us after death, what is left for you?