Nothing Ever Feels The Same. That Is The Horrible Cliche Everbody Hears, And Years Down The Road They

Annotating cause books are meant to be lived in.

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.

And in the end, my darling solitude is always there to hold me, however cold his hugs are.

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?

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.

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?

fingers crossed hoping in some foreign quadrant the variables might be altered, the five miles walked would never seem so minute then. dawning epiphanies graphing when our footsteps might align again, not defined when I asked, what that was, doesn't that answer seem so eerily familiar? almost as if lipped in another lifetime maybe? will it just be first impressions over the same highways? how will the fog ever clear, the lines ever scaled, if the puzzled tomorrows remain unsolved? rather we fall like raindrops in race, with no formula to grasp the path not quite destined to run but fated for eventual indifference.

I want to be fluent in french so bad.

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say

Do I like you or do I just yearn for the love the poets write verses about?