out of the ethereal bliss
where you came from
woken by godlike thunder
from an aging grandfather clock
striking the twelve
while you see your hands
are without hands to hold them

afraid that the day before you
will open to reveal
a window of nothing
romance that doesn't belong to you
from others who make the most of their time
you'll retell this saying "lovers" instead

heat sticks to you
like a bandage which forgot the pain
peeling off blankets
wishing you could peel off skin

the rush of routine
where pockets of laziness
should be spent hoping
for that sign to be sent
air of relief flowing through your lungs
but it holds you hostage in patience

and if tomorrow and today
become one
cutting out vocal expression
something to resemble improvement
you'll take solace under the sky
feeling the surface of the earth
cradle you like a scared child

there were 9 times
9 times I was let down
9 times I expected more
and 9 times disappointed

9 shirts were laid out
and none of them picked
9 mirrors had cracks in them
not one could stay
9 books full of untapped potential
9 stories in search of readers

I counted to 9 and shut my eyes
hoping to dive right into a dream
and 9 minutes later I was still awake

there were 9 mistakes I made
and 9 times I felt sorry for each one
I counted to 9 on my fingers
and couldn't make it to the 10th

there were 9 syllables in the last thing
you said to me
I'm sorry but I can't be with you

stories elevated by absolutes
where characters throw themselves into embarrassment
and those listening can’t contain their laughter
anymore than their alcohol or party-related energy

there’s wisdom hidden in the language
shouted for the sake of amusement
letting the music live on as the night’s compass
or liven the camaraderie ever so slightly

sticky hands finding their canned beer
after swatting the uninvited mosquitos
interrupting any chance at flirtation
lips cut their words hoping for an exchange

the pauses, the nervous ticks
insecurity slowly admitting defeat
crushing hands after crushing beers
these people interpret their own destinies
leaving the night’s heat to worry about itself

he falls into the fray
letting the last breath escape
his lungs
even the weight of his body leaves him
in the ether of smoke
summoned from violent escalation
where a backyard became a battlefield
and his shadow - loyal like a disciple
was the first to leave
and now he's in the presence
of some otherworldly thing

"what are you?" he cries in the clutches of defeat
it can't answer in words or gestures
he raises the same hands
which could build homes inside hearts
parched voice pleading, "I've lost everything"

his wants and desires are like stomachs
which cannot accept the notion of hunger
he falls to the floor waiting for death
or something like it to wash over him

yet this thing speaks to him
not in words or actions
but it communicates
he lifts his face with mustered strength
knowing everything that went wrong
cannot be changed
but change is not beholden
to the past tense

his eyes blink rapidly in
the wake of adjustment
sensing some light so soft
it could be a secret
telling the smoke
it's time to leave

it's not the fever that bothers me
it's the fear of looking inside my heart
and finding nothing
like some bad joke you promised not to tell
it's the mirror who's afraid of the reflection

I'm not worried about this sickness
it'll be temporary like my love
running across the ocean with free arms
never thinking to look back
and realize there's a past walking behind
slowly dying with each step

the symptoms are bad but they could be worse
they could rip your skin open
and let the humility rush out
onto the floor around trembling feet
wishing they didn't have to stand
for any of this
never getting along with the cold ground

it's bad but one day it won't be
my lungs will welcome air
like a mother's embrace
all the nights awake and alone
in sleep deprived dreams
will feel like something that never happened
passing like a siren which screams down the street
echos lasting only a few seconds
but not like a girl who sometimes
looks back
and remembers
like an old story
she heard long ago
some fantasy
existing somewhere

half-hearted sentiments sting the unwritten prose
bleeding through splayed fingers
and washing regret over a crimson doubt
repeatedly planted through pockets of history
upending a future perfected in a lifeless state

the primal instinct to cast blame
to point the finger back at the older self
reprimanding the absence of wisdom
too afraid to acknowledge where confidence
could have compromised kinetic fear

advancing the loaded uncertainty
baptized in the wake of youth
and slipping into adulthood
where fear unmasks its wonder
pressure breaks the safety of character

searching through peripheral vision
to a glory fueled by blinded ambition
the right call birthed out of the sense of where
the old identity excused from the frustration
lurking in the crevices of the now

glimpses of some other life
enter the peripheral
planting thoughts behind closed eyes
waiting for uncertainty to inspire
and awaken old habits
losing focus of where the sting left
scars forgetting their pain
hands resurrecting their purpose

undeveloped frustration
taints the addicting fragrance
captured in the charm of soft lips
ready to spit out strong words
to govern unstable conversation
prepared to forget innocent affection
organically crafted in days waiting to be years

your arms which bordered my body
leave me at unease in an unfamiliar bed
with nothing but filth underneath fingertips
throwing anger at stale chemistry
which slips further into history

your beauty reduced to a scream
edging out the last of us
into a shatter across the floor
pricking naked skin that moves

streets close off
telling work to go home
its role is finished today

white dresses dance in circles
filtered through formal lenses
where naked eyes lose their focus

lips and words fail to meet
and conjure up some magic
breathing in old silence

unmasking beautiful faces
to deliver melancholic confessions
where truths and dreams go their own ways

in the lack of an answer
or waiting for the perfunctory reply
it’s easier to lower ambition

when the chance ceases to exist
when language fit for a letter
is lost in the passage of time

in leaving the thought behind
the almost gasping for air
loneliness proves its burden
the heavy that wants to be comfortable