Misc prose, Writing

he was the smallest wisp of himself, something almost entirely destroyed, as though that was something novel and not his burden for the last twenty one years.

Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

when you wrote in your diary
you wrote
“i met someone new today”
and you didn’t write between the lines

now it’s two years later
and the lines are longer
and the handwriting’s starting to blur
as words become sentences and sentences become paragraphs and
paragraphs become whole damn books

when you wrote in your diary
you wrote
“i like the way they look like the world”
because the world is big and small and good and bad and nobody knows which way is up or down

now it’s two years later
and the world keeps turning
and gravity is pulling you closer and closer
and miles become yards and yards become inches and inches become
the touch of a hand against yours

when you wrote in your diary
you wrote
“maybe they’ll write our names in the stars”
like the constellations would spell out the pattern the weight of the soul

now it’s two years later
and the moon hangs cloudy over
empty fields and the lines we drew and the stars are dots
and we’re making patterns out of chaos and it keeps
our bones calmed inside our skin

when you wrote in your diary
you wrote
“one day your pen will write next to mine”
and the next line speaks in a different tongue the letters slope slightly differently the way i press down when i finish a word

now it’s two years later
and there’s a chill in the air
but we’re all wrapped up against the cold
our fingers in gloves and our hearts in our chests
warmed by the glow of a little world
found by little souls
bound by string and leather and
an epigraph at the beginning
but someone else’s words are someone else’s soul
so we write the rest
ourselves.