Hope’s A Terrific Tragedy, Oh She’s Brilliant But What A Lazy Bee. She's Got Bloodied Knees And Dirt

I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you said you’d run away with me if I wanted to, that you would hold my hand and I would lift my skirts and we’d escape this constant, vicious cycle. A blaze of hemorrhaging problems blooming like flowers in our trail, the vines did eventually engulf our little bubble of ignorance. So here I am, placing an eyelash on your pinkie, oh and if we could wish the world away. I don’t know quite a lot of things, I don’t know whether I should've ran, whether I should've dared to wish of you, should’ve should’ve should’ve done so much more or pulled back after fixing your hair. Is it bad, that sometimes I wish the thorns popped our little bubble earlier? Is it better you leave than asking if you would stay?

When the rocks seem miles away and the shore steeping and breathless, the desire to keep falling and falling overcomes the cause, when the sky flew faster than you, all the light was just blinding, never golden and when you lay by the riverbank, scarlet red seeping into clear eyes, scarlet red from where carnations grew, only does your breath turn tragic, turning poetic, when love struck jewels emerge, careful fingers touch the rubies, and this is all the power I have, to only lament words I cannot fathom and trace the fall over and over till only golden ichor flows anew.

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.

we are the next prometheus. will we end up like our own creator?

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.

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

but what if i interpret it wrong? you always called me out for being too cynical, so maybe the freckles on your skin spell out my name in braille. maybe the veins and arteries curling in my wrist trace the paths we are destined to walk. we have already happened, are happening, haven't happened yet and will happen, so what's the point in letting a stupid calculation error determine our reactivity? what if the stars whisper not warnings but twinkle in adoration?

you said i spoke like a poet,

and yet when i try to write,

your name is what spills out of my lips.

fingers crossed hoping in some foreign quadrant the variables might be altered, the five miles walked would never seem so minute then. dawning epiphanies graphing when our footsteps might align again, not defined when I asked, what that was, doesn't that answer seem so eerily familiar? almost as if lipped in another lifetime maybe? will it just be first impressions over the same highways? how will the fog ever clear, the lines ever scaled, if the puzzled tomorrows remain unsolved? rather we fall like raindrops in race, with no formula to grasp the path not quite destined to run but fated for eventual indifference.

Do I like you or do I just yearn for the love the poets write verses about?