Soft ideas left hanging on the air.
no longer inspired by,
no longer remembered.
The walls of my skull painted,
with soft ideas and stains
burnt in like cigarettes.
Small holes, terrible edges.
Soft ideas abandoned
formless on my breath.
No longer inspired by.
6am: dawn fog folds me over and i slide into my skin again.
Sleep hangs on the apartment, 70 degrees. on my eyes in confusion.
Graceless stumble in full effect, I’ve been here before.
Quick history sets in and my senses register one by one, a smooth relation.
607am: Breathe.
The air around me contracts to the bottom of my lungs.
One hundred thoughts, one hundred battles.
Those beaten breaths left hanging stale, dispersed.
Sit with me where the sky and the streetlights meet. Two lines intersect in the moment our stories speak. Tangled fingers in our tangled space, hanging, freely in all the times we'd wait.
Where are you now, but tinder and smoke. Forty floors of orange, and the ash of the earth. Love lost in a fire, long beneath the crust.
Not all that follows are ghosts. We live clumsily among the garden of our past, and though we move, fatefully forward, any second’s stumble sends us back. That song, alive, the sound of longing now, the sound of laughter so. Smiles stretching back, tears we're holding back, a love for reaching back. Forever is only times we've strung together.
All my life we've kept our lives in small concealed compartments, in hiding spots in little rooms, our little home in separate boxes. We stole our eyes and left the rest, and small talk now survives. Please forgive my faulted faith, I've lived so long alone outside.
Make the same mistakes in finite steps to breaking your own heart. Break. Reprise. Break. Repeat. And only break until you're no longer left, and all you had to give is lost to lust and wasted in fleeting fucking smiles and double taps until that lurking fear you like to think can't happen does and the only thing thats left is lonely. The only one to share it with is you, and any brief encounter in whatever hour your life brings home. Your quiet house, your silent home will fill with lyrics of only your favorite sad songs in reminiscence of all the lives you crossed and times you couldn't commit and all the second chances you had and left for loss, always believing they were better off, better faired, when all along you were always scared.
Running from parts of myself that were easy alone. But baby whats left? And how much have you known? I can't get very far, very fast from the place, but I opened a door, straight into you. And the pulling parts, the ghosts before, keep pulling back from running more. The parts of me I've longed to leave keep coming back in fear of the left behind. My life is always leaving, staying sounds sublime.
I see all in dim light and dreaming lately. Looking for a place I left behind. A home in the Dakotas, a home that's hardly such. A place of temporary taste, as always, another in my transient tapestry of always onward under a false flag of duty and prize. I'm held together by unsettled breaths and reflection; and in reflection of strides assumed in the right direction I'm finding myself short on time, or perceived as such, in part, in strung out times I'm strung along on caffeine and another dream of leaving. A bigger dream this time, a bigger feeling. For something here will be left behind, and the driven life that most admire will burn for preservation.
i remember those days and the party cups, it was all too fun, we would never split up. we could never get hurt, we were all too young. in the days and nights with the boards out back, with the beers and girls, when we never looked back. when we toasted the moon and mourned with the sun, before we all grew up, before we'd ever get hurt, we were all too young. days and weeks where the streetlights swayed down the same old streets we were born and free, with the suburb sweethearts and American dreams.
feelings of fading and a life steadily on the sidelines as a version of me, out there, fumbles, flaws and all in false minor victories under flags to fall
There’s a certain tinge to timing. When words are worked, and perfect letters lift a curtain in the way they leave some lips. Time tested, for smiles left in airports where I never turned back; and before it’s known, a scene starts moving, unfolded from the former, and people, places are more than walk-pasts and dreams-ons. More than memories in the face of the fatalist brevity of the best encounters. That certain change. The tinge of timing rinses, off-white to bright, and the desert shines to summer.
The weight of explaining to someone how you've changed. They stare in expectation, knowing, wanting, waiting for your story, because there is always a story. To sum a lifetime of nuanced actions, reactions, insults, injuries, scars, starts, start-overs, endings, renderings of every you from every time and the culmination of every life you've lived in your lifetime of living... the thought feels a forgery. The question puts words in our mouths and minds as gospel, but we will change again, and those words turn false from hymnal...
too distracted. always infatuated. everything unknown is all i'll love. everything i've loved is now unknown.