We wait to visit
like the discourse had never ran its course
and the both of us fumbled
like tumbling leafs
when windy nights came out of nowhere
and the clothes we wore were never thick enough
for the entire evening.
we didn’t say goodbye the right way.
It was like we’d thought we’d see each other again before noon,
but now the suns already passed its point
and all the rain in the world
couldn’t wash off
the way I feel right now.
I printed your poems
and lost fingerprints to paper-cuts
and I still screamed until I woke everybody up,
but none of it mattered outside my own head.
Believe me this hurts
and outside my own walls
I don’t feel as tall anymore,
constantly caught looking up
into all the places my tickets don’t cover
and over and over again
I keep reminding myself that I’m doing this wrong.
I keep seeing myself speaking
but it’s as though my thoughts were thistles
and my hands had thorns
grown through the kind of blood
that’s not afraid to leave its own skin.
So, where do I begin?
It’s like I keep lending out all my favourite things
only to forget who borrowed them
and what condition they were in
when I handed them over.
This life keeps me lost
and most of the time feeling like I should’ve stayed home.