they told me writing needed a clear mind

then i guess there’s no hope for me

when my mind always races

thoughts chase each other

and i’m left breathless

you told me that we were stars

stuck in human bodies

longing for warmth and foreign touch

for the heat that we once had

and you made me believe

that we were so much more

bigger than the words of poetry we read

sweeter than the kisses we shared

and more than the emptiness we hold

in the chasm of our chests

more than the bile rising in our throats

when we stuffed ourselves too much

with black coffee and melancholy

but if all the words that comes out

of your pale, chapped lips true

then our pressing palms and knotted fingers

is a halogram, our hallucination

for if we were stars then our entwined hands

is our dream, for that moment we wait

when we conquer the darkness around us

for that one moment our longing

has filled us too much and explode

and in that one moment

there is no distance

and we touch

i don’t know

whether my veins hold arsenic

instead of blood

and my palms sandpaper

instead of flesh

perhaps my breath

sulfur

that all i try to love

and hold dear close

eventually fade

or dissipate

they told me

my footsteps were heavy

and that i slouched too much

that i need to pull myself up

and that my coughs were too loud

in the middle of the night

that i woke everyone up

it only takes a second for me

to reach the kitchen

when we live in a room

under a tin roof

there’s nothing in the fridge

only the dull yellow light

a can of sardines

and the container full of sugar

it’s 12:09 and i’m

stuffing sugar down my throat

to silence my coughs

and in the near future

my breaths

too

for cracked bones

and faltering beats

you make such

beautiful words

we revel in darkness

in the pain that stings the most,

in the love that destroys us;

pulling us —

torn flesh,

scissored veins,

standstill blood,

and yellow bones.

but we find ourselves walking

in between sleep and dream

stars become the foothold underneath our feet

and we will touch the moon

you are the pages of books long burnt

the fragmented words of poetry

that humanity was woven

rearranged to see that the ocean can be gray

and blood can run on broken veins

in the empty cage of bones that once held a beat,

you are an empty home

with the occasional ghosts

and your frozen, cold windows

and the wavering flame on the hearth

pressed between your lips as a nicotine stick