Blinded By The Light Is Such A Sick, Dizzy And Warm Feeling. Like Apollo Embracing You, But His Rays

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

was it a sin to love you in our last lifetime my love, for which I am atoning for in this one?

varsity football you tried so hard for, it'll always be my oversized jersey you'll be fit for. you asked if i wanted to write songs together, what at the risk of pooling in our blood and then stopping to realize the handwriting could've been better? the mountain air smells like you, your fingerprints run down my back along with my bangs over the sink. will you be picking oranges or blueberries the next time I see you? maybe by then I'll finally feel the same crinkles around your eyes, yours will, however be much deeper, how could I ever catch up? maybe we'll have one last walk together, you can tell me of the serenity you find in studio Ghibli movies I'll never watch and you can brush my hair while I wait for another season to cut them off. I think maybe the Siamese twins survived in another lifetime but you, please don't be a stranger in this one, even when your footsteps haven't touched our roads in years.

the water engulfed without a moon to reflect. Ashes from desperate cries left burning magnesium through the rues. Starry hands sought the earth, and withdrew as if scalded, scorned whispers echoing through the lifeless home. The heavens grieved and stroked the rivers of fire, flowing ever so serenely now, sobbed harder and washed off memories to a place better deserved. the once bright lanterns, the sole conspirators of curtained stages, no longer remained diminished but choked underneath the clouds. The repressing haze, one which burned your breath, dissipated under the violent fog. The deep violet skies rumbled, quiet in regret, flooded the builds again and again, till life grew anew. The rushing sound never ceased, till the scorched red cleared the ruins brown, till the crushed whispers smelt home. Eventually, a blue, much like your eyes emerged through the tar clouds, and the broken hands gave way to crawling flowers. Amidst the drenched rubble, the soft footsteps of a lone writer remained as lone witness to Pompeii's apology.

my mind is like a goddamn river. not serene or calm or peaceful, but every thought rushing by too fast and gone before I can fully understand it. I, myself can barely remain afloat in these deep waters. so do you really want to break down my walls, the dams I've built over the years? will you drown in these rushed waters too? and if you manage to swim, would you bring me to my shores with you?

How can you call him a monster when he has my heart gently cradled between his cupped palms? So much anguish yet such a gentle hold on me. You hear your thoughts from others, and yet haven't seen the way his fingertips softly trace my neck. Although I suppose, if he had wanted to crush my heart I would have let him. How often do you witness such a sweet creature turn to pure rage from the depths of his soul?

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.

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.

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?

and even though the stains from the bright and artificial ice-creams we had are long gone from my clothes and my tongue, I still try to remember what it tasted like, how it was like between us back then when there was still so much to discover. yesterday, I bought the same popsicles we had, as if I could truly ever go back, and I swear something I have known, has never tasted so alien.