my voice has gone, ghosts. i am sorry. i always feel like i should be sorry, sorry to these ghosts. if you ever wait, i'm still here, ghosts.

zero

Thanks to Olivia, my favourite O, and almost zero.

bronte

‎now your bowl is empty, and your feet are cold, and your body cannot stop rocking, i know, it hurts to let go

since the day we found you, you have been our friend, and your voice still, echoes in the hallways of this house, but now, it's the end

we will be with you, when you're leaving, we will be with you, when you go, we will be with you, and hold you till you're quiet, it hurts, to let you go

we will be with you, we will be with you, we will be with you, you will stay with us.

the best I ever had

Thanks to Robbie.

night.

all that was great goes cloudy, everything that licked the skin now cold. i couldn't risk laying in the grass, and you are nowhere in my blood.

the night moves. it is not slow, not now. it takes half of your head, leaving you in circles. i press every song deeper to my skin, but nothing.

i have shown no anger but why in the absolute fuck would you once more come so close? i was fine! my heart is stronger than everything that hangs from it. but, again, i come low, and simple, and think you mine. and you - you - you, just an echo of the stars, that permanent grin. why try to haunt me? because the simplest game is the only thing that throws me. because malice, what nourishes you. i hadn't - i had not - my eyes were not yet - these irises still shrinking to take in your light, and that you rush from the room, the day.

i can't make sense.

my spark still a spark made alone.

all I day

All I need is light. All I need is love. All I need are my shitty arms, and my slowest feats. All I need is the mess—you smeared over the couch, crumpled sandwiches at midnight, a train card stuck in my teeth. All I need is that hallway, that broke the door down, knuckles like knots in your hair.

—Ian William L.

in your light

i can see the last drum beats of the sun, my mouth still stung from your song.

starry configurations.

dear infatuation,
you do not see me
die here beside you
in see through obscurity.

jets to brazil; starry configurations.

i can't speak of the world like that. my words are torn and ugly, limping between intentions, they lose the form. whole frozen places shatter in that instant, spittle washed up against your turned cheek. and if you knew the tongues of the wreck, i think turned to steam, the kind you never felt passing, then a thousand tiles passed.