A.M.

Playground wishes

Hot breath

Spoken misses

Cold kisses

Your deep whispers

Muffled giggles

My bare arms

Your rigid fingers

Sheet of ink

Spilled in the sky

So darkly blotched

The stars don’t shine

Stiffened plastic

Your soft hair

Charred like coal

Bars break away

A hidden freedom

A passing smile

Quick embrace

In spilling time

Grainy sand

And then hard ground

Run fast on legs

Past crooked spines

No moon

No drought

A shared approach

A common ground

The string drags on

Through grains and rags

With reasoning

Of lucky hands

Discovery of nighttime runs

The warmth that breathes

And looks like smoke

The night plays cover

To a bold approach

Reading List

A list of good reads, in my opinion. I'll update it whenever I fall a little bit in love with another piece.(Series)
The Gone Series by Michael Grant

(Short stories)
"Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol

"Everything and Nothing" by Jorge Luis Borges

"Borges and I" by Jorge Luis Borges

"The Life and Adventures of Shed Number XII" by Victor Pelevin
(As my professor said, "A story of a soul and its struggles".)

South American Waters

Someone make me go to bed already. Feeling peaceful.


Oars, and foam, and a watery breeze
I want someone like you
To share this with me

I can see it from here
Where I'm nowhere close
But it'll be someone like you
Brushing my arm as I gaze at the coast

And I'll hold your hand
And all will be calm
Because the person I travel the world with
That kind of fate is already etched in my palm

Chipped

But I'm not paint.

Que bells

Que sad music

Que the depths of the sea, or ocean, because it is both bluer and darker. Almost as deep as Joyce, and maybe if there is enough effort, everything wrong with the world and humanity will become so obvious, and one can be sad forever.

Sad forever, just imagine. Finding the obvious becomes an expertise.

Obviously, everything is broken, and simple steps of the day are so meaningless that it becomes a poem, and then there are barriers of complicated chemicals that we breathe, and these complications make tears tickle, but not flow.

It is the easy that makes salt water run; it is easy to be alone.

The forever game of reaching, and in all fun, even when both souls extend a hand, fingers apart, unbending, the skin will never touch. Energy flows whether the forever game goes on forever, connectivity doesn't.

I'm sorry that you're sad because life is mean.

And I'm sorry that you're sad by choice.

I'm sorry that you share his love, but you're dragging heavy fear.

And I'm sorry that there's no joke in your love; it's almost like another tragic game of forever.

Bells.

I'm sorry that your bells are laden with liquid, and mine won't make a sound.

Flipping over and over, graciously, life is not a game of forever. The board is sturdy but the pieces break, and drown; some float, but it doesn't mean water doesn't run down their throats.

Help, question point. There is no way to ask what cannot be answered. My answer is that you can't see it, you won't, it's all mine, and you ought to have too much of your own. Hardly an answer to your help, question point.

Repeat, repeat, repeat the meaningless steps, the breaths, the darting of gifted vision, the gift of hugging close everything that erodes.

You may not know mine. I may not know yours. More importantly, mine won't be known.

You can't

At me. 

There are no layers.