You are a billet for bullets lost and dutiful.
And it's beautiful how foggy and misprinted your eyes can be. And it struck me that you were as oblivious as I thought you would be. But blueprints cannot be read by no expert.
My alibi is all that I've been dreaming of; angels doing handstands and bobbing their heads to punk rock and that was nowhere near healthy. And I might be guilty for the emptiness inside me but yeah whatever.
The sun heat is like waking up to shrapnel and duds in your bed.
My problem is that you are my own presence. And I can't be there without you roaming my spectrum. All I think of is influenced by all I think of you.
These days, you cross my mind like any simple thought, even though I thought we weren't supposed to think about each other anymore.
You were never able to stain me; you just taught me to say what I think and scribe what you say. You turned my day into night while the night was still a night and you promised me an armor that would bring the Sun to its feet. And that we'd flee this world whenever our chances was to clear out of this dome and pray that our friends would pray for us too.
But you are not like your friends and I am not like my friends and I don't know why we insist on calling them friends when obviously they would leave us alone with our migraines under the steamy sand that stand for the dirt we've racketed.
The soil that is lavished with its generosity to give birth to trees that can only converse with the rain. There's a reason trees don't grow near the sea.
It is all a ballad of shaky handshakes and sweaty palms holding unto each other like flood and pulse is the ark.
People like us pretend to wear their pride like dignity that hangs on rooftops and trips on full stops.
Hands like yours remain like photographs which remind me that my forever is just not yours and that we both are finite.
Right then, I knew I was breathless but I was lunging. I was longing, for a walk that could calm me down but could also keep me ignited because peace was drifting and I didn't want to drift away from myself.
But now? Right now, I feel so little. And so young. And so naive. But I am little. I am young. And I am naive. I stress my words where my worlds end: when I just can't speak, even if I try to sugarcoat all what I've written.
So, I stop writing. And I clear my throat, ready for something I'm unprepared for. And so it is attacked and it's gouged by the ticking of my wristwatch.
This is how to live when it's the possibilities that guide you to where you belong.
