Fingers Crossed Hoping In Some Foreign Quadrant The Variables Might Be Altered, The Five Miles Walked

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.

"i never see you getting angry, when i was your age i used to be so, so angry"

perhaps we're more similar then i think mother, i don't think I've stopped screaming internally since the 7th grade, the amount of violence it took to convert my tears into deep-rooted anger, but i listen to your sad past anyways, unflinchingly, all my anger directed towards my grandmother, and her grandmother, and hers, a long line of cruel women, who in turn built crueler versions of themselves. i can't tell you about how each time i look into a mirror, i see not myself, but all the crueler and harder versions of me, and i see you, the woman i swore not to be when i was little.

i cursed you for sacrificing so much, but I'm older now mama, now i feel the same rage as you do and i curse at how you are all i could be in the future, with the same screaming daughter inside.

And in the end, my darling solitude is always there to hold me, however cold his hugs are.

Is life always struggling out of you? And the more you laugh, slowly, bit by bit, life echoes out of you, like the sound bubbling from your throat? And eventually it runs out, but I can't seem to find that sad, as you fade brightly, just like a dying comet in the night sky, short-lived but beautiful nonetheless.

I hate the sunset tonight, the world is shaking and nothing feels right the calculator shows me a paradigm of an answer without a number in sight I hate the sunset tonight because that would mean you’re leaving, without even putting up a fight, without the unspoken names of the constellations we once found without the trace of our foreheads pressed together just right I hate the sunset tonight I’ve got my pens and papers out by the coast side the pile of broken calculators grows taller and I try to catch sight of your flight come back down, stop flying out of my sight come back down, won’t you make it right? the sun bleeds over my homework, the water rushes out of my veins, the horizon pools over and drops down in a terrible rhythm, a bit, then a bit more until it bleaches out memories right now, this night. I hate the sunset tonight

(hi) (...)

i finished watching our conversation topic from a couple of months ago. the entire time, you were like a spider traipsing along my thoughts, quietly marveling at the silks you laid, carefully tucking in the corners of the bedspread I never learnt to spread. could you tell me once more, that I don't need to be right all the time? I think my compass is way wire, you haven't been singing for quite some time. my wrist still burns from when you dragged me to wonderland, the quickest film drawn out in painful hours only inside my head. We’ve been here before, the tunnel that won't end is yours, can you blame me for being afraid of heights or futures i can't quite graph on my hand? Won’t you let me scribble over your blue hands one last time? I won’t do it in permanent marker I swear, this last time.

blood dripping from your lips like sweet poison, hands shaking (who's hands are steady after a crime?). I kiss away every drop, each a seed of a pomegranate against my lips. I consume your sin, as if it were mine. my hands steady yours, and I help you hide. after all, what are we, if not partners in crime?

Retracing etched cartographies, Leaves trailing and blurring the green into the black of your hair Careful cuts from plucking, thorns left of dreadful affairs Hands tightly wound, because pressure stops the bleeding right? Chasing ripples down the gravel, Skipping stones over the mounds of tapestries we left unraveled, Crawling into shades of optimistically feverish illusions Of questions reduced to rueful omissions And what of the accidental glances you inhaled? Indifferently desperate to show how you could carry us both over the waves And what of the visions that the echoes from trivial flutters held? Just to be ignored, bandaged by what we thought words would mend The rain washed over the crushed leaves, Damaged paths patched over in light of New Year’s Eve Crossed out calendars, our tree’s now grown don’t you see? The tendrils now curl my hair, as if comforting a forgotten maybe. So here I remain, retracing blood inked cartography.

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.

Was icarus's fall so terrible after all? He would've died with a smile on his face, the sun all beautiful on him, setting him ablaze. Golden boy alight in his fall, golden are our kisses which set me ablaze and my wings burn in all their glory as you sweep my ashes 'neath the rug. The wax stuck to my lashes doesn't seem to scald your skin as much as I'd hoped and it seems fair to give it all up, for just a fleeting moment of your rays spreading across my skin, painting my lips, as if all the gold would hide the red underneath. Icarus must've surely died with a smile on his face, for I know I did in your smoldering embrace.