On Missing You.

No, none at all.

That burnt smell from your body after spending too many hours in the sun,
That scar from a paper cut,
The pile of dishes in the sink,
That bad haircut,
Stains on a glass table,
Graphs and Numbers,
Roofs of asbestos,
Hanging of dream catchers,
Flickering of live wire,
Abandoned terraces,
Wet sneakers,
Footprints on the wall,

None at all.

Did you somehow have a faint memory from any of this?
Nothing needs to mean anything all the time.
Pulling out of focus, and holding ourselves by ourselves.

I realize, no,
there is no meaning at all.


Thought 28. About every damn poet ever.


I dont want to write.
I dont want to write
About love
and the things it does.
About heartbreak
and what never was.
About pain and hurt,
hearts covered in dirt.
About the ‘color of your eyes’,
and your ‘lips on my skin’
About how ‘instead of looking outside,
you must look within.’

About romanticizing and eulogizing,
faces, events and places.
About even and odd spaces
between two people or
pretension of insanity.

About women,
About souls,
About how they feel used
for looking like dolls.

About sex
and intimacy,
the throes of passion,
and how even that,
is another form of

About anxiety
and depression,
About painkillers
and obsession.
About things that kill
me from the inside,
about how most of the things
are really those that affect me
on the outside.

I don’t want to write.

About ego,
and psychoanalysis.
About how only you end…

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