Poetry

/white face/rosy cheeks/a round red clown nose/50 years ago he stood on stage/people know him as August/he dies in September/a month late./

“I’m good at poetry, I just don’t like it very much.

It’s one of those things where if you do it enough for school, you get just as good as someone who likes it.”

I walked home the long way because I knew the sky would not be angry at me.

The moon knew what it felt like to be so tired you couldn’t even think

Of going to bed.

On Sunday night, you can find me empty in my full room.

Head cocked, half leaning on the arm of my chair,

Listening to the mechanical birdsong of my alarm clock.

Top Gun soundtrack and

peanut butter m&m's and

writing poetry for my friends on

torn-out sheets of notebook paper, scrawling

the verses in pink ink that

reminds me of fairy wings and

If love were a place, where would it be?

Would it be in the arms of their gentle embrace?

Would it be where echoes of their laughter kiss the wall?

Is it the place where only love can dwell?

Would it be ever changing?

My heart aches,

You linger in mind,

Where others should live, you stay.

Why can’t I forget something,

That was never meant to be?

Everything reminds me of you

The gentle patter of raindrops,

Deep in my chest

Lies an ever-throbbing ache,

A constant reminder

Of love unreturned.

Late at night, I lie awake,

Dreaming of things that could never be.

A smile, a laugh, a fleeting gaze—

I watch her sob in the night

Her fingers clutching a photo of her love,

Pressing it to her chest,

As if paper could soften the ache.

She whispers their name in the dark,

You sit,
a shadow in the corner,
watching words crash
in your head
like jagged glass,
cutting the air,
and cutting 
you.

brushing fingertips against skin

cold as ice.

lying here, late at night

cold as ice.

the second his sweatshirt was absent

~F

i felt so numb when he told me

that he used to feel the same. 

honestly, i should've expected this, yet im shocked.