I Want To Be Fluent In French So Bad.

turns out mixing narcissism with deep rooted insecurity was a spell for disaster.

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?

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?

what is it we find so dark and murky in the universe that we can't find in our silly synapses?

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

And speaking the ancient tongue is like reaching out and having a chat with history itself, shadows and shimmers of unspoken words bound by time, now escaping through the curve of your lips.

exam season again y'all

Walking through the machines, They’d see blued bones Every place you held me in. Bated breaths from them peeling The suitcase we let gather dust, How come we’re on the same flight, Just in different terminals? The plane which took off before mine, carried the longing with it, And what is your love without the yearning mixed in it? Not the shaking when we landed, Face first in deep so called regret, Ignored the rumbling of shoved voices, What could be better than your heart’s erratic noises, When I pass through the crimes of unforgivable circumstances?

Yes, your heart stopped at 5:05 am. You still have so much time left across the world. Frida kahlo painted flowers so that they would not die, my darling muse, how can I ever accept that you're gone?

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.