words are easier to hold back than tears. sometimes i hate the prophecies, the self-fulfilling patterns. if i let myself think, i’m drenched in rains & rivers, standing outside your window. if i try not to think, you find me anyway: a song in each of my palms. your name, a prayer upon my lips.

here, a new favorite place. here, a childhood reimagined. here, tapestries of fantasy. here, i admonish myself. here, i know i did the right thing. here, i curse it all. here, i beat my fists against my life. here, i hold myself. here, i surrender. here, i release.

perhaps the easiest way to mourn is to overwrite. wicked games & long train rides north. i close my eyes at your station, and let the hurt simmer. it was never you. it was always you. i made you you. i mourn my inventions: the dreams that fed, the doubts that fell and rose like hands on a clock. i mourn what could have been, what will not be, what i can’t save. cobalt landscapes. spectrums of remembering. the blues that stay.

to be loved is to be seen. you do not love because you do not see. you do not see because you cannot see. i cannot hold this against you. i have seen you. i have loved you before. i love you still.

golden threads & july promises. senses & sensibilities. a pocketbook of decisions telling me not to drink, to feel, not to feel, to be. god is a black bird, watching. the sky erupts in thunderous applause.

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