the wind blew a little harder today—
all for a chance to kiss you.
i guess the coldness of days gone by
do not scare you at all.

now I whisper to find you,
in the smallest of cracks,
in the pauses between breaths,
in the vastness of the evening breeze.

nothing could ever make me
stop searching for you.

nor will i ever want to.

your name is etched on
the skin of my walls
despite the lack of nails
or metals scratching.

i found you when
i couldn't even find myself—
i'm sure i don't mean as much
to you as you did to me.

"the ceiling feels nearer now,"
i tell myself.
the spaces you once filled
begin to dissipate.
they choke the air
out of my lungs.

i know i will not see you
in the foreseeable future,
but i'm glad i saw your face
at least once
in this lifetime.

maybe fire is a synonym
of compassion, and we
interpreted it differently.

and so when i tell you
that my heart burns passionately,
it isn't to say that you'll
get burned—

it is to let you know that, sometimes,
pain is a precursor to happiness,
and that nothing comes
without a cost.

I still hear the ocean
whenever I close my eyes.

"I love the beach," you said.
I looked at you then
with a grin on my face.
It wasn't intentional
but I used to make those
when you were near.
I guess it meant I'm happy,
or stupid enough to believe
what you say.

I still feel the sunset—
its glow, the overrated
orange skyline,
the melancholy it
wrapped us in.
A subtle reminder that the day
was about to die
and that it's so **** beautiful
when it does.
I told you this kept
my heart beating.
You were too quick
to agree.

Maybe that's why
you had to leave.

Maybe you liked
the sunrise more.

i spend a quarter of my time
dreaming of days gone from memory,
their vestiges lost in anticipation
of something new—
something worth betting
my remaining life with.

i wish i could go anywhere,
yet like a bird in a cage
i am merely a slave to these chains
and there's little to no chance
i'm making it out alive.

there is reprise, they tell me,
in my laughter—
perfectly rehearsed,
unapologetically
apologetic of jokes
meant to soothe
my own misery.
it is all i know,
and it is all
i will ever need.

"you remind me
of greatness," they tell me.
yet they forget reminders
are odes to what used to be
rather than what is.

these days, i turn to the future.
"dreams are for the blessed,"
i tell myself.
someday they will fade
and i, alone, will remain.

whatever i touch
turns into tragedy—
Midas wishes his hands
were made of mine.

i dare not touch
trees and their leaves—
their old age
will not matter
once i graze their skin.

i do wonder
if everything good
that comes are worthy
of my ruin—
they quickly turn
sour and ugly
once they,
finally,
rest their heads
on my lap
and i am left here,
once again,
picking up the scraps,
telling myself
nothing incredibly,
or inherently, bad
has happened yet.

but what if it comes?

what if the world
decides to put
the blame on me
and punish me
for simply being alive?

should i keep
crawling back
to life?

or should i
accept the fate
i have been given?

days seem endless,
and i, bound,
chained to oblivion,
do not see a future
in the beyond.

my fingers, as stout
as they are, are the first
to dissipate slowly
into nothingness.
i have given
everything to
not make it so—
yet a man left
to perish can only do
what a dead one
is ever allowed to.

i love you,
and although love
is but a word riddled with
fantasies, lies, and heartache,
i surrender to the idea
that i am yours,
and yours alone.

i wonder,
will my bits and pieces
remain in your memory
after all of this?
will a part of me
stay humming,
breathing,
in your own little world?

when everything is gone
and i have faded,
will my words,
pretentious as they appear,
still ring true to your ears?

will you forget me
in the vastness
of the void,
in the grand
scheme of things?

i believe so.

but darling, it is not
your fault.

it never will be.