With Only The Irregular Rush Of Cars Playing Notes In The Dark Air, I Think Of How I've Lived A Thousand

writing is just letting your wounds bleed on paper.

Flying kisses are like such a cute and soft thing :(

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?

golden threads like spools of glazed time, rippling over skin reflected upon or emboldened in time? slivers of voices trapped in the warm rays touching and painting your hair, wisps of unwound paths waiting to be caught. so many red strings, fluttering like our erratic beating, yet I'm left weaving tapestries from bare scraps of discarded lint. furious stitching, from the timed ripples dying, words of a melody barely coaxed by red and blemished fingers. the same golden threads, now remain unspooled, what a mess, caged like a broken Wallace. soft goodbyes left unsaid, braids woven for ultimate indifference. what knot did we miss for the tapestry to burn and not shine? the yellow so dull like jaundiced eyes but the red so stark like first drawn blood.

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?

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.

just the feeling of ink stains on your fingers.

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

being smart is literally my only validation. nothing if not smart.

and when the writer types out the final full stop, we stop too. for you and I, were only a 'we' within these numbered pages bound by a frail paperclip. what we search for is eternal, and the writer tried, tried so hard but I guess we weren't just meant the be, the fates cut our string, the paperclip was bound to break.