what used to be

amidst the sunshine
he strokes her hair
with his fingers and
she flashes a smile that
radiates pure love

and every memory-soaked
neuron seems to fire
at one time and
I am burning
where I stand

with a desire stronger
than pure lust
I need you to
intertwine your fingers
in mine like we had on that night
the crickets were singing
the song of our hearts

in every vein of my being
I feel what love used to be
and I feel its void
one thousand times stronger

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Prose

You used to look at me like I grew flowers in the deepest pits of your lungs. Your breathing changed each time we spoke as if you were exhaling their fragrance and then breathing it back in. Their tenacious vines clung to your bones and impatiently wrapped themselves around your ribcage and suddenly I was inadvertently suffocating you.

All the while, the garden in my core was bare and infertile. My stubborn efforts of watering were futile as sunlight refused to continue to radiate from my haphazard heartstrings. Hopeless and desperate for florid growth, I sought the sunlight of another.

There was none that I could find. Instead I settled for fire, foolishly believing that the two were mutually exclusive. He left my lungs scorched by the time he was done. His heart was coated in ashes that seemed to multiply with each shard of innocence he took from me. His soul was arid. It was nothing but desert land. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not make flowers grow there.

You were a meadow that I was too proud to notice. I was blind to your flowing springs and gentle earth. Your soul gleamed in my direction, trying to guide me by a light I was not ready for. But now I feel it. It ignites the inside of my being with a warmth I cannot accurately articulate.

But I no longer grow flowers within you.

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Nomadic Confession

This city
once gave me life
but now I find myself
suffocated

How can I stay
if it won’t let me breathe?

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Memories Kept

Increase the dosage

of nostalgia

in the music of my heartbeat

and I will tell you

about the moonlit nights

and how we saw our love

in constellations,

in echos of our laughter

cascading through forests

harmonizing with cricket melodies.

I will tell you

of the butterflies

that fluttered until they learned

to fly into sunrise.

I will not tell you of the new day.

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Mismatch

You only see romance
Between sheets
When buttons are undone
And breathing is heavy
Love is on your lips
Only after I am
Your forever promises
Are only whispered
Between our sticky bodies
In the dusk of wasted passion
I saw romance
In your morning coffee
That I never liked
Love was on my lips
Even in your absence
My forever promises
Were whispered
When you didn’t care to hear them

If only you had listened.

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The end.

We are a novel
with the ending torn out
We are a sonata
Beethoven got tired of writing
An unfinished painting
An infinite intermission
I’m still trying to understand
your disintegrating passion
The devolution of love
How
You walked away
From our half-finished castle
In ruins
Pieces washing away

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Abstract

But freeing my mind
is not romantic.
There are images of rainbows
of visible light
shining from prisms.
There are drawings of birds
flying from cages.
I wanted it to be like that.
In words alternating from cursive
to barely legible
I wrote of my past
my present
my future
the demons
the angels
the fire
the ice.
But it wasn’t rainbows.
It wasn’t songbirds.
It was a Jackson Pollock.
It was red
it was black
it was pink with purple spots.
It was all of my insides.
But it was beautiful.

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