like you have stayed in all my anonymous letters, to anonymous strangers living in an anonymous world.
like the cracks on our bodies don’t bother you anymore than they bother me; like the regrets on my skin don’t fuck apathy into yours, when you get more intimate with luna than you are with me. like you haven’t been hiding my paintings under train tracks, because that is the closest you come to committing suicide, without ever feeling your bones break under the weight of people who move on faster than your wrists can lose it’s pulse.
like the sand isn’t silting over your eyelids, like it isn’t forming scars that would take ten million lifetimes- with lifelines that have been broken into ten different times, to form ten intricate types of breathing patterns that would still collapse into the same singularity- to even out with the rest of your skin.
like i haven’t been pressing prayers into your palms, when the planets momentarily loose their anatomy to the wild mourning of a widowed star, grieving the twin that has over-dosed on the distance that comes with being free from gravity. like a heart-attack is just another riot in your chest from bones being held in too tightly (you can only increase the density so much, before everything falls in or falls away).
like i haven’t been kissing every millimeter of your neck, just to feel your voice cords snap under my lips, because sometimes, it hurts more when you are prepared to talk, just to watch the the color in my pupils scatter, than when you remain silent to hear me scream out every reason that keeps me from whispering your name.
like the thought of leaving breaks your heart, more than it could ever break mine.
i would’ve rather asked you
how many names you’ve scribbled
on the back of your hands
and how many of them you’ve stricken out
when the bus stopped
in a screech,
and two footsteps always faltered
on the sidewalks
in a slow contemplation
i would’ve rather asked you
how many times you’ve stabbed your thighs
with razor blades
that sank perpendicularly
to your veins,
when the wrinkles on their wrists
folded into themselves,
like curtains closing
over their heart chambers.
i would’ve rather asked you
the number of ways
you’ve learned to sing her poem completely,
without ever remembering the stanza
that left her lips
in those seven mute seconds
that somehow got trapped between
your window and her door,
when she had been
choking herself on all those lifeless little sentences
that had wrapped themselves
around her voicebox
like a noose that tightened
every time your lungs skipped a breath.
i could’ve asked you to describe
every single scar on your skin
in microscopic detail-
your quiet echoes vividly
when my heart falls silent
under your palm.
i live when you don’t speak.
do you remember how your skin had mottled over her words?
you had thorns digging themselves out of your bones and vines crawling all around your throat, trapping the last remnants of their antipathy to fester in your lungs.
i remember you suffocating for days afterwards. days that were defined by your capability to distinguish the sunrise from sunset. days that were a motley mess of every sound that echoed loud enough in your skull to shatter mirrors. days that you still hold close to yourself, because she left roses at your door-
she who wooed your grief.
i wish you had seen those roses for the fault lines of your heart like she had intended. i wish you had seen those roses as anything other than hope.
you’re the kind of love that
taints hearts and breaks bones.
the kind that echoes uncertainty,
and mourns poetry-
the kind that is conceived
in a breath,
and decays in the next.
the kind that leaves your body
like a bullet,
and scars your skin like a serrated knife-
the kind you start forgetting
before it’s gone,
but live with long after your chest
has succumbed to gravity.
Last post as an 18 year old.
i call for your sparrows at midnight-
they cry on my lips like forgotten lovers
i couldn’t bring myself
to weep for,
while i held their bones in my hands
like your heartbeat-
structured into a delicate masquerade
there is mourning in your name,
and agony in it’s echo-
as your speech stutters in a static
cold desperation that
parts us without any possibility
of a choice.
you can’t hear much anymore,
almost as if the sounds have dulled
in the space between my breaths
and your mind-
and neither can they.
it’s easier to sing
if no one can hear you beg the sky
for words you wish would
dig themselves out of your throat.
we are a dead statistic in a graveyard
crowded with grief-
i could only muster a vague sense of
sobriety to fill my lungs,
before your loss rips the horizon
from my chest
in a cascade of hastily receding widows.
you’ve called me every name
but a lover-
almost as if i haven’t been cradling
your lungs in my arms,
breathing my breath into them
like a mother singing farewells
to her newborn-
screamless in death.
almost as if you are unremembered
by my tongue-
you act like i’ve wounded you
as if i have cut out your ribs
with my nails, and
wordlessly swallowed their grief
for a heart.
there is no heart.
there are rhythmic knocks on your chest
from a past self
losing himself in the struggle
to be heard.
you’ve called me every name-
i hold the sky like a jilted lover
i’ve been seeing behind your back,
in stolen gasps,
that you fail to comprehend today.
it never looks at me any more than you do-
almost as if it’s too hard
to keep pretending to care when you don’t;
almost as if it’s too easy
to let go of the quiet silences that
slipped between the lines of our palms,
when march came rolling in like a martyr
to our february mistakes.
there were a lot of those-
regrets we carefully disguised under
the careless slurring of
we still haven’t begun counting-
you and i.
we still can’t bring ourselves to just
i have been passive smoking your grief for what seems like years now- what could have easily been months or weeks or mere days, but time walks slowly when you’re mourning the death of someone who was never awake, enough to know the effort it took to raise your lungs against gravity.
we’re falling down- wingless, and without care of how much it might hurt when the earth fucks redemption into our bones. we’re falling down like static electrons- restless and unwanted- experimental, in ways that churn the guts of men hungover half a shot of misery with a few drops of tequila.
love has always churned my gut, but longing- longing rips the skin off my muscles, and sews them into the tiny shards of bones skewered through my heart, making a facade of a spiderweb that has always spelled your name.
something beats inside my chest today, something like a breathing nightmare, a broken song, and a muted promise. something that crawls in the space between your diaphragm and my ribs. something liquid enough to slip through the valves of my heart, and solid enough to rivet me to yours.
i want to leave it beside you, under the sheets-
we’re going gray, you and i-
the colors leeching from our hearts in rotten shades of blue, that stumbles and chokes on a word that still has no place hanging pierced from your tongue.
we’ve lost something stronger than just the high that comes with being heartbroken, we’ve lost that moment- that moment when everything stood infinitely clearer like we were both looking at it with a 20-20 vision, while the rest of the world had been conveniently photoshopped to become blurred.
i can’t remember, if your eyes were ever a darker shade of black than mine- a shade trapped between three different layers of the sky that had been too fissured to ever hold its name; a shade where the galaxy broke it’s right hand beating twin stars into submission; a shade where thirty different sort of reds spread their legs for the nostalgia that came with being passionate; a shade where green was just a distant memory of an oasis in the middle of an inhabitable planet.
i can’t remember why we were ever colored.
this evening has turned raw and restless like the lungs of a bird who was dreading the feel of the ground on its ribs, as the sky finally crumbled under the gravity of a thousand lovers trying to pluck stars.
on evenings like this- when the rain pretends to mumble, you raise your knuckles and knock on the wind as if someone would finally tell you that someone was there, and that you did not just talk senselessly to the church candles, while they flickered impatiently.
there is a voice, and we are just too negligent to hear it- too sensible to call it god, and too ignorant to call it a ghost.