Her I Don't Know Who She Is, But I Know You've Got A New Her Now. Do You Make Her Laugh? Or Worse, Does

So much spilt blood on these lands, isn’t it hard to believe such sweet scarlet flowers grown on those same places? Every time you weave those ruby-red flowers into my hair, do those lovers who never got such bliss sigh? Separated by time but brought together again when our hands entwine, do you still believe that everything we have isn’t the exact same shade of scarlet?

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?

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.

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?

That 'always an angel, never a god' made me think of 'always a choice, never the one chosen'

How I hate immortalizing you, but what am I if not loved by you? what is a sunflower without her golden star? what am I to do but turn to your gaze from afar? just clinging, hoping that desperately, that your light's just for me and no one else, that I'm the worn out hoodie that always hugs your frame, and maybe I did deserve it after all, how else would Icarus ever fall?

exam season again y'all

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.

Pluto spun around the sun, until its light was too blinding, even for its love struck eyes to take. So it withdrew its orbit, pulling back as if leaving makes the river run softer, like leaving wouldn't marr the existence of anything else in its stead. Bask in the afterglow with me and tell me love, do the golden rays seem harsher from my window?

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.

Do you remember when I almost walked in front of a speeding car and you pulled me back so hard I laughed? later that night you called yourself my guardian angel, which was funny because for you I'd kneel and join my hands to The Something I've never really believed in. But I didn't tell you that, instead I told you about how I never really believed in Santa or prince charming because Santa had my dad's handwriting and my mom taught me that to love is an afterthought, only fulfilled in heaven.

so you don't believe in heaven?

No, but would you come for me when it's 3 in the morning and I'm pouring out all of the ink I have on paper, hoping it covers the blood that runs 'neath? Let me slice my hand on your halo, when I need to feel human again? Would you engulf me in your wings and let me tell you about how sometimes when I cross a road I reach for a hand that isn't there?

I'll find you in heaven just to prove you wrong.

But wouldn't you rather be stretching your arms above to the eternity I can prove, I will prove, for I am twistedly determined to prove you wrong, right next to me?

but how would you know it's me next to you?

I'd know, I'd know you, I'd always know you, your branches would be the one's above mine when the rays get too harsh.