Walking Through The Machines, They’d See Blued Bones Every Place You Held Me In. Bated Breaths From

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.

i bite back a smile when you point out that the eye looks weird. i like your shading you say, but the colors could've been darker. a fish in water for the first time, i breathe in the relief. i'm so sick of it, i wish i could tell you, i'm so sick of the mindless hearts and soulless compliments. you're so brilliants echo and bounce around this shell of a frame that was once gifted. there's nothing left yet the red shiny wrapper's still on. not for you maybe, is it too soon to know? call me out, call me out, tell me when i'm being an asshole and i'd smile harder honestly. you offer a repose to this empty gallery.

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.

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?

We yearn for immortality, yet dismiss the ones who've danced with the elixir as mad.

Singing softly as our ship sank

This time our serene notes of joy,

Escaping in bubbles of desperation,

As we cling on to the broken raft of our love.

I promised I'd start journaling next year, this year i mean, that I'd fight the urge to cut my hair, I'd fight the impulse to stare for far too long down the road, lying with the time ticking in reverse unable to quite picture how you'd laugh, that I'd stop numbing the ache by forgoing to muse, stop craving the cough syrup, stop biting my nails, learn a new language by the time I'd have to wish you, so that my smile for once wouldn't be brave, my typing not repeatedly erased, I'd promised to stop loving you the very day, the clock hit today,

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?

blood dripping from your lips like sweet poison, hands shaking (who's hands are steady after a crime?). I kiss away every drop, each a seed of a pomegranate against my lips. I consume your sin, as if it were mine. my hands steady yours, and I help you hide. after all, what are we, if not partners in crime?

exam season again y'all