Writing

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

Touched by your kindness,

I felt a sudden warmth in my chest.

If you can really say, "I love you"-

will my mind feel lighter?

Past closed doors,

I can hear a faint voice.

I can't make it go away,

I remember when

my eyes met his—

the ghost boy with the pink hair and the fake life.

Right, he sighed. Guess we're climbing a skyscraper tonight, you ready, lame traffic earring?

He pleads and begs with knees rusty and matted

Feet of vines to soak the fall not bound like his wife's

before Dysentery dragged His sword

into her glowing heart.

A guarded truth of us 

We turn the pages

One by one

For we are the stories

Without endings

Like mirages that only come true through

a cloaked gaze

They are dug into history

Encrypted with prints

We locked eyes, if only for a fleeting moment.

You- you're- you're really here.

Right?

I really couldn't believe it. 

Tears welled in my eyes

as I thought about everything that had gone on.