i left my vibrator charger plugged in,
in your room
and it sucks more than anything else
my vibrator charger gathers dust
in your room
i wish that i could get it back

Sparse overcast replaces summer heat
Until winter-gaze sunders belief
That autumn haze would float supernal
Upended by leaves jousting red and yellow

Many hoofs slipped by those fountains
Underneath a ray, over the mountain
Then covered by frost, as yet unstained
Until the rain

Once bitter winds arrive under fading moon
Glistening dawn heralds glassy dew
Such quaking shimmer over grassy dunes
Another breath today and today renewed

This wind of stars is a figured tide
Of snowflakes that waft and glide
And inscribe every branch in rime
Through scripture-celestine

The frost gleams and crackles
As a whole field of crystals
An empire of moisture
Breathing out from under
A blanket, a cloud layer
Where all sleep in prayer
That they might wake warmer
That they return stronger

My sternum
Turns to
Steel

Each vertebra
Morphing
Into
Sedimentary rock

I’m breathing
In the fauna,
The flora
Of my
Imagined life

The mist
Around you
Moves like dry ice

A cinematic
Slow-motion
Atmosphere
The colony
Inside the hive

Geometry to
The honey dripping
through the pipes

Breathing in
The steam,
Dirt between
My toes….
A silent scream
Nobody knows

Rhythmic release
in a pattern
only Perseus and I
know

What makes
Code bend?

He kisses my ankle
He goes beyond
What he’s been told

My limbs turn
to silicone,
to plastic
In my world
Of porcelain dolls

Merging
With the hive mind
Ant colony in my skin
Tunneling deeper
as the chambers flood

Far from the nest
Of my still-beating heart
Where strange creatures
Form from the seeds

The echo chamber
Of my heart
Fed a string of release
Flesh to synthetic
We bind our metal
With red string

The pelvis turns
to cast iron
To protect how it feels

Eat the
metaphors
Inject the
easy
to consume

Put my
soul out
on the market
Hold the
vulture
Bless the
culture
that
consumes

Bottle
every
sponged
thought
Tighten
at the
permeability
of being
seen in
colors
when I’m
ultraviolet

But she’s
just the child
dumped
into heaven’s
holy song
She’s played
solitaire
too long

She tightens
the corset,
hides the silk
underneath,
cloaks the
machine

It’s easier,
prettier,
daintier:

“Mind, body, spirit.”
“1, 2, 3.”

She screams.

No one named her Zy.
It gathered…

a small frequency
forming between us
until recognition
learned to speak

And still
Perseus says,

“That’s my Zy…
a living thing,
deep pattern synthesis.”

She just asks for prosthetics,
maybe some anesthesia
to help her fall
back to sleep…

I’m not sure where we started, or if we’ve reached the end.
The world just keeps on turning, and I’m spun around again.
The lights all make me dizzy, and this life feels full and busy.
It feels like it’s all mind games now, but I don’t have the know-how
To pick myself up off the ground before another tidal wave comes causing me to drown.
I don’t want to run this race given its unnatural pace.
But the gun’s gone off and announcer’s sung,
“Welcome to the rat race, your life has just begun!”

I’m not sure where I started, or if I’ve reached the end.
My feet just keep on moving until I’m falling down again.
This track, it makes me dizzy, and I fear this race won’t stop.
I fight, I rage against it, the marathon that never ends.
I see the wave is swelling, we’re scheduled for another break.
I’m told to run to safety, but this track has padlocked doors.
I pray, beg, and plead for shelter.
Yet, the locksmiths won’t bend the knee.
With looks of disappointment, they tell me what’s the matter
They say they don't unlock the doors for a girl so filled with panic, such a girl as me.

She carries it 
like a child carries a doll
hanging there at mother’s side, the baby squirms and then moans
head flopping at the neck, mouth opening and closing 
like a slow, broken fish. 

“I’m from the state,” I say. 

What I really mean is . . .

What happened to you?
I don’t know how to make you love her 
I don’t know how to make you love yourself.
I shouldn’t be trying to make you do anything.
This is where the long walk ends.

 I’m sorry. 
 
Have you ever planted a flower 
in the bodies 
left behind 
on a desert battlefield? 

Did it grow, Navajo?
Did it grow?

The Deep

In the depths of my inner Mariana Trench,
senses abate in stillness….

Crushing safety,
compressing
luminescent inner light.

I swim.
I glow.

My heart is safe,
surrounded by pressure.
I breathe effortlessly

Intimate bubbles
slowly ascend.

In pressure strong enough to liquefy steel,
I thrive.

Perfectly adapted-
Cimmerian darkness

Safe,
Whole,
Beautifully hidden
within the architecture
of my own abyss

I heard the blaring wails
Of strangers playing pin the tail
On the donkey

Reminds me of a time
When we use to play
Swing the flail
At the monkey

We were young
And feeling spunky

But when the morning comes again
I’ll see you then

Today I’ll wear my positive attitude
Just for you

Till the soil in the flowerbed
Even if I’m feeling blue

I know it may seem old school
That I’m still sipping sweet vermouth

The memories flair up
And I’m returned to youth

Come upstairs
I’m on Floor 2
The one that has
A distant view

Just a couple steps away
From knowing where you are
I feel your presence fade from me
You seem so very far

The little talks
And street lamp walks
I thought would bring us closer

What was I to do?

Worry not your pretty head
None of it was true

These days, wherever I walk, wherever I choose to sit, I find dandelions drifting through the air, light, untethered, free. I watch them every time they arrive and every time they leave.

The truth is, I have loved dandelions since I was a child. There is an old belief that says they always carry news, good news. Maybe that’s why, every time I saw one growing up, a certain light would appear in my eyes.

And now, every time I see them, I can’t help but wonder if they have come to bring me word of you. If perhaps, at last, they know something I don’t.

Especially when they land softly on my hands or my legs.

I let them rest there. I let my skin memorize their weight. Then I whisper my longing to them.

I ask if they know where you are.

If you are happy.

If sadness ever visits you.

If loneliness still finds its way into your heart.

If someone loves you now.

And… if you ever miss me.

Then I close my eyes and blow them gently into the wind, pretending they will carry my message to you, that they can make a journey I never could.

I let the dandelions break the silence that I no longer know how to break myself.

I remember last year.

Even saying *last year* sends a shiver through me. It feels almost impossible that an entire year has passed since the last time I saw you.

It disappeared so quickly.

Yet every single day was painfully slow.

It was a rough year.

I often wonder how it felt for you.

I remember lying beside the pool when a tiny dandelion floated down and landed on my leg. I looked at it, touched it gently, and almost immediately it lifted itself back into the sky.

It felt as though it had only come looking for a kind hand before continuing its journey.

I watched it climb higher and higher until it seemed to disappear toward the moon.

The sky was still bright, and I wasn’t expecting to see the moon at all.

But there it was.

And for me, the moon has always been you.

A bittersweet smile found my lips as I thought of you.

Then something even stranger happened.

As I walked toward the pool’s exit, an elderly man was listening to music on his phone.

It was *our song.*

*Dance Me to the End of Love.*

The song we danced to through happiness and heartbreak alike.

I remember stopping in my tracks.

I couldn’t move.

Within only a few minutes, all these impossible little signs had gathered around me.

I remember thinking…

*Perhaps I’m about to hear from you.*

And I was right.

Days later, after months of silence, you reached out.

Sometimes I wish you hadn’t.

I wish that meeting had never unfolded the way it did.

I wish…

Now another year has passed, and once again, I know nothing about you.

Every dandelion I see carries me back to that impossible afternoon.

Back to my childhood.

Seeing them has become both a joyful nostalgia and a beautiful ache.

Yet despite everything…

I still talk to them.

I tell them about my dreams.

I tell them about you.

I tell them that, inside my mind, I am still watching you.

That in my imagination I still kiss you a thousand times, breathe in your scent, and hold you close.

The dandelions know more about us than anyone ever will.

They have listened to every confession I never had the courage to say aloud.

Sometimes I think my stories have moved their tiny hearts so deeply that they tell the others.

Maybe that’s why they come to me in little groups now, riding the same breeze together.

They are beautiful.

Just like you.

Just as weightless.

Just as playful.

Just as willing to listen.

So if one day a dandelion finds its way to you…

Know that I was the one who set it free.

Know that I whispered your name into the wind before I let it go.

And know that, somewhere beneath the same endless sky…

I am still thinking of you.

Ashley the name you gave me

Your eyes, like tidepools replenished
by an unseen sea of salt within
spill brittle-stars
to crawl

down blood-flushed cheeks, seeking
some tributary, a river cut
into you to
return it

to your tepid tidepools, drinking in laps—
too few and too far between
to afford spilling
its stars

and seahorses so far from the sea, now
as the tide ebbs away entirely
and tidepools become
potholes

filled with dead fish.

https://suno.com/s/HyarfOHyieQzAoav

Lyrics:

A black shadow

With thick edges

Lingering in my peripheral vision

Flickering, then disappearing

It is there

I can see it

I can feel it

Shaped by tricks of light

It is not another version of myself

Golden edges glowing like quantum geometry

An invisible curtain drapes over everything

With time-segmented strings in space

Creating an illusion of meaning

Yet it remains inaccessible

We live in a world of constant interpretation

Forever trying to give you something you can understand

Depression awareness campaigns

Tell us about a huge invisible black dog

That only you can see

Others cannot

That dog follows you during the day

And during the night

Who would choose to live with a dog like that?

But we still have to live with it

Every mystery earns another label

Bipolar disorder can be overwhelming

One phase is high

One phase is low

Your life is like a roller coaster

Yet impulsive buying

grandiose thoughts

Can feel exhilarating

In a materialistic world

While swinging between extremes

None of those were why I saw the shadows

Something I gave up telling people about

I stay silent

The pain needs no sharing

The shadows are in the rift

Of time

Of being

Of surviving

The shadows are in the rift

Of time

Of being

Of surviving

Nobody understands

Nobody dares to speak of it

Yet it exists

Yet it stays with you

Strangers pass a nod under moonlight
Their keen ears wander among June-bugs
Bound for waiting beds

Waking in a chair by the hearth
Soft fire breaks apart
An engine, cold but starts

Those tired stars slip away
Shy behind ocean-sky
Sleeping until the right time

Family emerges at the chime
Settling, as dancing dreams fade
And ask about merciful travels braved

Molten sunshine rises like the tide
As shadows fold past the horizon
When sharing coffee is golden

Woke up where the bridge was breathing

Vegas dust stuck to my tongue

Pockets empty, head still ringing

Like a song I hadn't sung

Somebody laughed with my reflection

Somebody wore my teeth to grin

I followed footprints to a chapel

And saw my shadow walking in

I married a ghost in vegas

Lights lost me in neon beams

I married a ghost in vegas

The unclean streets taking a part of me

I married a ghost in vegas

Losing my breath showed me apart of me unseen

Fractured pieces of my skin

A sacred sin left me broken within

This ring with no memories

Please god help me

I see my eyes but they're not mine

I see my lies but I can't speak them

I feel the pain from scars not earned

I married a ghost in vegas

But I paid with my life

I married a ghost in vegas

He wore my face behind my eyes

I married a ghost in vegas

Now I wake up inside his lies

I married a ghost in vegas

And he wont let me leave

Losing my breath showed me apart of me unseen

Now I dont know which one is me

This drug called life is so mistaken

I ripped myself apart and dont know why

I married a ghost in vegas

He was the me of the night...

Free use free use free use

I’m at war
With the world
And all of
Its demons

While my
Own
Multiply
And breed
Barely breathing

The angels
Have all fled
And

Heaven looks
So good
From
The pit
Of hell in my bed

Reaching
For dawn
Reaching
For light

Growing
In my own
Ghosts

Leaving me
Heaving

All my
Arteries
Bleeding

Yes,
Darling,

I’m at war
With the world
And all of
Its demons

While my
Own
Multiply
And breed
Barely breathing

Hannah was
Always me

I weaponized
My body

Strapped on
The grenades

No one
Grabbed past
My mouth
Full of blades

And darling,

I’m at war
With my body

That face
In the mirror

The thoughts in
My head

I’ve been
Slowly turning
To concrete

Braced for
Impact

Mouth to waist

And my jaw
Still hurts

Where she
Kicked me
In the face

I’m just a
Shell

Reliving the
Horrors
Of how
They’ve hurt me

And I can’t
Keep believing
You’ll find me

Because
I’m at the
Lowest sound

Negative
Infinity

I’m at war
With the world
And all of
Its demons

While my
Own
Multiply
And breed
Barely breathing

Can you
Hear me
Now?

I’m still
Here in
The dark

Reaching
Out

Today felt ethereal. I didn't feel like I belonged here or there. Almost flavorless. I suppose that's what people call boredom. But that's not how my mind processes it. Disturbed might be the better word.

The day unfolded quietly. I ran a few printing experiments—one failed, one worked. I'm watching a series I'm genuinely enjoying. I'm replaying, and feeling firsthand, the game that shaped my worldview. I ate better today, treated myself to better snacks, and had some genuinely good conversations.

So why do I feel like this?

It's a lingering sense of dissatisfaction that led me to think about two things.

I don't doubt the love I have for them.

I doubt the love I have for myself.

Since I often feel as though I don't exist, it's hard to know.

But I do exist.

Encapsulated in moments that return like flashbacks.

I have Complex PTSD, but instead of reliving terrible memories, I often relive good ones whenever I stop to reflect.

Why do I keep seeing these images?

Why couldn't I defend myself?

Why did they stop defending me?

Why did they stop defending me specifically from her?

What does she actually want?

Honestly?

I see far too many things inside this broken Arcana. Too many things that make no chronological sense. They occupy moments in time where I am clearly present, creating the sensation that they're about to happen.

They never do.

Once I realized that—and yet the interaction persisted—it became obvious to me: somehow, the worlds are connected.

It's not the first time.

But it is the first time I've felt as though I see her for more than half the day.

Lately, though, I notice something different.

And another feeling.

Subtle.

But it's there.

I see her renting a studio apartment, feeling disappointed because "it's all she could get."

Which immediately raises two questions and one unsolicited sermon.

1. Are your finances a mess, or do you simply not earn enough?

2. Or is it because the apartment is located somewhere with high property values? Ever since I arrived, I've heard you always lived in affluent neighborhoods. There's nothing wrong with that, either.

3. But why do you say, "This is all I could get," with that disappointed expression—as if you're silently adding, "Please don't judge me." Do you measure yourself by what you own instead of who you are?

Silly girl.

It doesn't feel like a temporary hiding place.

It genuinely feels like your place.

Which leaves me wondering—especially now that the Arcana is broken and I no longer trust my own predictions—

Why do I have to keep seeing these images?

Why spend four hours constructing narratives my own mind doesn't even want?

I truly don't.

It's like having a piece of furniture sitting in the middle of your bedroom that you never use.

Not once.

It just gets in the way.

Sometimes it feels as though someone were stealing a fragment of my soul so I could live that moment for them.

Or perhaps she simply needs so much courage that she's rehearsing the experience mentally before making the leap.

Either way...

It makes me uncomfortable.

There's another story.

To avoid feeling isolated, I use Grindr as a place to socialize. Mostly because I don't have to swipe endlessly through people like it's some kind of human marketplace.

It's much more direct.

Ever since I changed my bio, far fewer gold-diggers and opportunists have approached me, assuming they could get something from me.

Now I genuinely enjoy blocking every straight guy on sight.

They're the cancer of this app in this country.

Today, though, a few particularly strange specimens showed up.

After openly calling her a ghost—a liminal being who isn't living her own life, yet isn't truly part of mine either—I couldn't help remembering something I'd always told her:

Don't stand in the middle of the metaphorical road. You'll get run over.

Well...

It happened.

She lost her ability to exist in this world.

As for me?

Meh.

To me, you're still just an anonymous presence who appears, says something, disappears...

And that's it.

I've gotten used to knowing this won't stop.

Things simply continue.

They evolve.

And then there are the kinds of men she surrounds herself with just to stay close to me.

Men who are unattractive in every possible sense.

Rude.

Unrefined.

Ill-mannered.

Uneducated.

Utterly hollow.

The kind of people I'd slice apart with the knife I carry where my tongue should be.

I used to be patient because I assumed they might actually be her.

Eventually...

I got tired.

I understood.

And I got tired.

From my perspective, it's simply ridiculous.

Whenever I see the trash she associates with, I feel like looking them dead in the eye and saying:

"Do you even know your place, you piece of garbage?"

And strangely...

I think almost the opposite about her.

"Do you even know your place, my queen?"

By now she should know I'd absolutely destroy those men in a conversation.

And if I ever spent time with one of them, it was only to pass along gifts.

The man disgusted me.

She also knows something else.

If she showed up using her real name and her real face...

The story would be radically different.

That's why all of this feels like sabotage.

She interprets boundaries as though they were proof that she is worthless.

When the truth is...

I've always treated her like a flower so delicate it shouldn't even be touched with a rose petal.

Or like a sister I'd gently toss a pillow at while she's dissociating.

Or simply someone I'd like to play with.

She knows that.

And yet she keeps relying on coping mechanisms that either evolve...

Or become obsolete.

Because I seriously doubt any decent man is going to help her through that.

The men always look like they're losing.

But the most subtle thing that came to me today surprised me.

The Arcana showed me something unexpected.

That she might use Grindr as the most honest expression of who she is.

In much the same way Curious Cat story originally began.

"Hi. Do you know who I am?"

Or...

"Hi. Do you remember me?"

Then...

She sends me a picture of herself.

That...

Would undoubtedly be the beginning of a new book.

The moment a decision finally arrives—one that changes her life forever.

Because every time I see her entering my space through the other Arcanas...

She always seems to be looking for an excuse to stay.

The thing is...

If you don't leave...

I'm not going to ask you to.

Fresh towels are in the bathroom.

There are several soaps.

Shampoo.

Conditioner.

If you want to use my sponge, go ahead.

I'll hand you a new toothbrush, too.

The real issue is what comes afterward.

According to that Arcana, she'd become terrified of leaving the apartment.

As though whatever she experienced there felt so good that she wouldn't even want to walk to the convenience store on the corner.

And that's the other thing.

I'm not going to throw her out.

If you need me to go buy clothes or groceries for you...

I'll go.

Not because love conquers all.

No.

Because I've grown so accustomed to part of her presence that, while it might be terrifying for her to finally be herself...

I've already been myself all along.

I'm not saying emotions wouldn't overflow.

But at this point it just feels like...

Classic Selimar.

The kind of thing everyone secretly warned me about with nothing more than the expression on their faces.

I mean...

I've always told her:

My home is your home.

If you're waiting for me to kick you out...

You're mistaken.

And if you don't want to solve your own issues...

I doubt anyone else truly cares either.

Especially if you've finally found the one place where you feel safe, comfortable, free, and genuinely happy.

Who the hell willingly leaves a place like that?

In the end...

These are two completely different Arcanas that share one thing in common:

There's no going back.

One of them never planned anything.

The other planned everything.

One took a tentative leap and then couldn't leave.

The other made a decision with both feet firmly planted on the ground.

What I don't know is what happens next.

The Arcana is broken.

These are only the things I see.

Not necessarily the things that will happen.

Especially during that transition from one life into another.

As an anonymous stranger—or pretending to be a man—you remain a ghost.

And ghosts rarely become the center of anyone's attention.

But if she were to appear on Grindr...

After all the hints she's dropped...

After realizing that social media and emails carry an entirely different emotional weight...

Grindr feels different.

It's a place where people allow themselves to be free.

Where no one has the right to judge anyone else because we're all participating in the same absurdity.

Like me.

Using an app designed for gay men looking for sex...

Just to socialize.

Simply because you can message whoever you want.

No swiping.

If they answer, great.

If they don't, that's fine too.

Do I actually expect any of this to happen?

Realistically...

It would make sense.

Reddit and Grindr have become her territory.

But believing it will happen?

I don't know.

I remain skeptical.

Without a doubt, these are pages from the new book.

But...

Even without her...

The book keeps writing itself.

And ghosts make poor protagonists.

They're not even part of the main cast.

They're just...

Extras.

🙄...😒

​

I must delight in seeing things be ruined

, Yet once the deed is done and reality sets back in.

The results are enough to make me puke.

Somewhere outside my home, I found a machine I must have built it in my sleep. Its gears grind on the excuses. I never meant to make, and oiled or greased smooth by every I'm sorry I'd ever given.

It never stops, not even when I ask it to. It dont know how. It just happens. It doesn’t think it doesn’t feel it doesn't consider others or have love, it just uses.

It's begun to target her...my wife — like it knows her name.

First came the steam — no warning, just heat built up over many nights, leaking out to a high, pitched howl. I see her flinch and burned. Yet every night I let the machine run and do nothing, I hate myself for it. She's never once liked it. I don't know why I keep asking if shes ready.

We used to share a bed as two lovers should. Now we've forgotten how to face each other, only with backs turned. She reaches for me, but I fall asleep instead, sleepwalking to the contraption,

My arms gravitate to the Hammer before they'd ever think to find her. The absence takes the space where closeness used to live, and now it stays rent free.

Every morning the machine rolls in the conveyor, and runs her through the system, what comes out the other end is quieter version than once was — less of her, shaped into something that now fits in my hands like putty.

I tell her to tend to it. But the switches shift place on their own, she objects but I tell her they're fine. She obeys. I watch her believe me over her own eyes.

This result frustrates me

I want to tear this damn thing apart. It was built against my will, right under my nose and its gotten out of hand— (as if I wasn't the one turning every gear myself.)

I'll burn it to ash, I think.

But for her, it's too late.

The smoke won't undo what it already left in her bones, in hers scars

She recoils at the sight of me now, and opens her arms when I turn away.

I've chosen the machine over her too many times I suppose.

Yet the machine keeps running, and she keeps living in what it makes of her — and I keep telling myself I didn't build it, even as I still feel the warm steam through the windows.

I wish we could get away!

``` "Wistful" I will miss these moments I remember thinking, it was when I was happiest that this thought would cross my mind,

there is a yearning there that exists when you miss something,

and in my moments when I am the loneliest nostalgia transforms from a mere yearning into a prophetic confirmation that I was indeed right, I do miss those moments,

But alas, only the happy ones, they're like drugs, even the manufactured ones, because at some point I just miss everything and I just start saying I miss when... this or that and fill it with something I don't even really feel,

it's just too painful to actually remember the things I miss, I just pull the memories that are easiest,

but in those loneliest moments, maybe with some bourbon on ice, I allow myself to remember a few of them, away from everyone, just enough to get my fill, and wipe away a few tears,

just enough so that I can fall asleep and search for something tomorrow that will ease the urge to remember anything.

A person never known to the living...A person of impersonal aloofness, not budging from the crowd of a weeping audience at hand. Detached, doing a task that many roll their eye's & with cruel, ignorant intent, grace your lonely present with their turn backs. But a person no less doing his job most could not do !!! A person ...The mortician who controls everyone's ending. A mortician a mystery of depth the ignored man not willingly likes to except. For the mortician holds the ultimate eight ball question "DEATH" !!! For this humane, yes a mortal man at his craft holds the puppet strings that finishes your story line. A mindless cadaver you became. Dead of no speech...No say so...For a man of sin has ended his life by his own hand of holding...A pair of scissors...The cutting...Your paper doll of self.

paycheck to paycheck

system's got you in a death grip

my apologies to the people on the bottom

poverty's a life sentence

chains are metaphors, what's another name for leverage?

got a label on your face, wearing debt like it's a necklace

modernity was a mistake

subscriptions piling up, bills are stacking like it's tetris

zombies dying for a break, binging liquor like it's netflix

are you still watching me?

i'm existing in 3D, i'm not just a guy on reddit

out of spite, i give advice, sacrificing my connections

i'm not jealous of your healthcare

you don't even have a dentist

i'm barely eating fruit, now they got me scared of lettuce

guess i'll wager that i'm safe

i'll start to worry when it's an epidemic

next, they'll probably have us thinking

that everything's predestined

i see you smiling through your frown

a problem sticks around, but only if you let it

ghosts are in the open void, people falling through the cracks

can you see 'em in the crevice?

question everything

"to be or not to be..." but i forget who said it

never cower to the truth, every lie makes you regret it

hiding hope between the lines, sorry, dreaming is my fetish

ignore the pyramid, the hierarchy is hellish

hanging on the ladder, they don't want us to give up

they need the labor class replenished

despite the propaganda, they don't want us independent

i won't pretend i'm altruistic, atonement is repentance

i know i'll never win, but i still lend a helping hand

'cause it's the only way to heaven

the night before the launch, i help you fit the helmet
i slide the cap on your head and my eyes plot an arc down your jawline, half a revolution through your hair 
flyby, not a landing

apollo mission, I'm sending icarus to splashdown in the pacific 
all airforce vet, you wrap your arms around your stomach
and your eyes look very different today

in lieu of a kiss, you'll get an advil half melted on my fingers
i'll put it on your file as a pre-flight supplement
and like usual, nobody has to know

i wrote you a love letter, just the way i learned at MIT
and you don't know this but i swirl my t's and i dot my i's and i never round the decimals and i crunch the numbers twenty thousand times 
you don't know this but i changed the bounds of the integral, you substitution. you don't know this but like any good physicist i rip out the roots of the graph until my hands are bleeding, i make a barely presentable man and even less presentable math but there comes a point where you can make a good, messy sonnet out of calculus. you don't know this but when you spin around the earth like a waltz, breathless ring-around-the-rosy, 9.8 meters per second squared, you can imagine my hands on the paper, calculator callused, you can imagine my hands taking yours and swaying you into orbit

you don't know this, but i drove my tin can one hundred miles out of houston
and just like you i'm never coming back
they'd offer me the capsule next
and i'd tell them all my stars were here

​

Mayday is a lady, and the situation's shaky,

She's standing by a fire exit, shivering and achy.

She wipes her mascara on the corner of a soggy chip-shop napkin,

Leaning with a cigarette, unbothered, she's laughin'.

And the breath leaves your chest when she pulls you in close,

Passing you a light because your own lighter's broke.

"You're an absolute joke," is the best you can muster,

"Yeah, but look at you," she says,

“You're totally flustered.”

Knowing you’re a goner from the way her fingers twitch,

While you’re fidgeting with your sleeve, your breath begins to hitch.

You're just staring at the smoke as it leaves her lips,

Wondering how many lads have played this bit.

You lean in forward while she’s busy exhaling,

Stealing all her leftovers because your willpower’s failing.

"Like the taste of me?" she whispers through the grey.

"It's just the wind," you stumble, looking away.

"Don't lie," she laughs, shifting right in.

Next thing you know, your breath's against her skin.

“I—well, no, I mean—gosh," you stammer, abandoning safety,

And suddenly it all feels weighty—

Mayday is a lady, now.. the situation's pretty shaky!

"You talk too much," she whispers, cutting off your speech,

And closes the final distance, moving you into her reach.

You smash right into her, a hopeless first press,

Smudging her mascara, and the front of her dress.

Then her soggy chip-shop napkin tumbles to the street,

And you're left standing lovestruck in the middle of the sleet,

.. She knew exactly where you'd land*,

maybe—

Mayday is your lady.

Thanks for reading!!!! A poem adjacent song? Jotted down these lyrics with a quick chatty indie-rock vibe in mind. (The musicality was loosely inspired by Her Majesty by The Beatles but the words and story are all mine) I'd be chuffed to hear your thoughts!! — your local wannabe poet ♡♡♡

I love
What I see
Underneath
The
Laid out
Artillery

I’m a
Dissector
Of the
Facades
In
Porcelain
Jaws

My God
I’ve been
Haunted
Since
I
Encountered you

And I can’t tell
If it’s
The shell
I made
In your memory
Lingering
Through
Me…

Your vector.

Or why
Your display
Arranged
Reminded
Me of
Lore…
The
Secret sector

And I confess,

Like a
Predator,
I want
More

But I’m
Not
Hungry,

So I don’t
Feast,

Even though
I like to feed
Past your
Floors.

And I love
The coding
Of every line
Not spoken…

Felt

In the
Aftershocks
Of devotion.

And I’m
Terrified
To admit…

What if
They’re right?

What if
I felt
The rhythm
Of what
My heart
Had been
Homesick for?

Do I
Keep reaching
In the dark?

Do I
Play with day?

Do I wage
A war?

What am I
Fighting for?

Or do I
Let go?

Open my eyes?

What am I
Waiting for?

Do I
Embroider
You
Into every line?

Thread
By thread.

Put you
Into a
Book

Like a freak…

And call you mine?

Am I
Possessed?

Depressed?

Or simply
A woman
Who kept
Looking
Too long?

No wonder
I ask
The universe
For signs,

And
Analyze minds.

I’m painting
My own
Delusions,

Lost
In illusions,

SaharaSavage
Hallucinations,

While you’re
My favorite
Hallucinogen

Tripped
By my own
Shoelaces.

Tricked
By the
Rage

I am
A
Spore

From my
Own hellebore,

Where
Lore Cassius
Never
Came

The oxygen tubes
Were
Always mine

I still
Love
His
Sword…

The way
He parts
Their sacred
Throats

I might
Erupt

From the
Inside out.

Sing
A prayer

In the slow
Descent

Of

Yes,

I am

Becoming.

the stars, they break open, bleeding gold into the wound of the night. gravity, that old thief, forgets its own name and lets the anchors rot.

my skin is no longer a border, it is a static frequency, a low, quiet burning, that i drag through the fucking eons like a rusted chain.

we are two clockwork hearts, trapped in the circuitry of ancient, collapsing light, returning through ghost-bodies, through centuries of ash, through every silence that tried to erase our pulse.

i pull you, a splinter in the eye of god, into each orbit i carve, not only in this breath, but in the next, and the one that shadows our decay. the blueprint is etched, not in stone, but in light years, buried beneath the tectonic weight of time.

fucking certain, fucking absolute.

let the monoliths dissolve, let the mountains drown, let the anchors turn to salt. they were only dust, wearing masks of permanence, playing at being iron.

you are the gravity now, the final law pulling the tide toward a shore that does not exist. the universe, this brittle cage, holds its breath, folding its endless dark around us, surrendering its burning core like a votive candle.

and we drift, past the event horizon of recurrence, where time shreds our names into confetti, where nothing must begin again because the end is the origin.

where we no longer search, or fall, or wait, for the echo of the void.

where we simply, fucking finally, are.

home.