What does a death feel like? It's the deafening silence left in the air after all the blabbering is gone. The void grips you tighter than your lover ever did. The kiss of death leaves a cold burn on your whimpering soul and it hurts more for the one who is spared alive because life isn't any great without your tango partner. Everything smells like gloom.
I haven't gotten the chance to taste death yet but I've been chasing it from a long time. I failed every time I pictured your sad face in my mind, with your lips murmuring, " The guy dies in every book." I didn't wanted to make you live my death but I guess I'll have to live yours now.
I'll name every star I'll ever see after your name if only I can find some courage to sit in the same balcony where we talked for hours. The pictures of those beautiful skies I shared with you won't excite me now as you won't be jealous of the view anymore, you belong to it now.
i write. endlessly, incessantly. i write the most baseless of phrases and the most pointless of thoughts as i feel something entirely different churning inside me. i write emotions that are dead to me in stories that my grandmother spun out of sundry yarns. i like my art raw, wet and fragnant. i love how every word sometimes means nothing yet people translate it into something that extends beyond the four corners of my bedroom. i create, not fully. i throw away ink on paper like shells scattered in sand and my drafts make up a meaningless myriad of senses, that you wish, made sense.
however, on days when i do not write i water my dead garden of a mind and sit in a field of humus as i weave pages of nihilty into a poem of feelings that now seems to make sense to a world that does not know that feeling nothing at all is a one way road.
so on days when i do not write i spiral down every road of a traumatic non-existence and mother a poem.
You were birthed under skies bloodless and blue child of the starlight with the wild of the forest branded on your skin; the heat of the fire and brimstone bursting through your veins an arrow waits to be let go from the palm of your hands you vow to aim straight and true as it soars past your eyes the wind carrying it beyond mortal sight.
You hold this sand grainy and golden in your fingers watching it float from one shore to the other they talk in hushed voices about your soul and how they want you to tame it, tether yourself to the ordinary; and the ocean howls into the distance and the chaos that is born is silent as you let the waves carry you away.