Writing

Daydreaming of writing

About the stars

With beach grass blowing

Around my face and

The smell of the sea tickling

My nose, watching

New starust slicks the shingles

On the ancient roof of the shed

Where a couple of souls lie to clean

Their greying teenage bodies.

The streetlight turns off at

Half past ten,

I would let the world burn

If it meant I could see you one last time

I could let the skies collapse 

if I could press pause on time 

i remember the crowded er

the bright lights and hard blue chairs

at midnight on a thursday

i decided to leave forever (but did not succeed, nothing but a mere mark in my neck, a rope, and a bad cough)

"It's not the person refusing to let go of the past but the past refusing to let go of the person."

i feel nostalgia brushing her cold fingers across the palms of my hands, my forehead, the back of my neck

Are we all mirrors?

Reflecting what others

do and say

but when we see mirrors

we see a filter?

A filter that adds

comments

popping up like pimples.

Are we all mirrors