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The Station Left Awaiting

One of these days you are going to pick up a pen, jumbled words tangled clouds fuming smoke at the back of your skull, jumping ideas of endless knots around nerves screaming for wrecked ideas and dejected plots.

One of these days you are going to pull a paper (out of its box), twisted stories knitted scenes inducing venom at the pit of your stomach, playing the chords of broken songs around veins scheming for connected pictures and corrected negatives.

One of these days, the pen will be in your hand and the paper will slip through your skin, thinnest fabric bedsheets covered in empty scars.

One of these days, the paper will be filled by words, your words and then pen will be tinted by ideas, your ideas.

One of these days, one of these days–

(says you as you dropped the pen, waiting for another day, another chance)

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Spiral overturned

When words come out tough,
Buildings collapse
When we relapse,
And so it is us,
That relapse-collapse-relapse

Sink or swim

Every song she listened with him,

Drowns a pool,

She failed to swim

Every lyric she listened with him,

Drowns a sleep,

She failed to sink

Intermission

We have hellos and goodbyes for a reason; we arrived, we met, we talked, we parted. You and I know how time ticks and never were we allowed to keep something, even the slightest touch and breath shared, locked up in a box, eternally.
So here’s the second phase, another part another section;

The first, though, was never really gone.

Cracked

He broke her,
To crumbs, to pieces, to bits.
He broke her,
To trip, to stumble, to fall.
He broke her,
To endless, to dust, to none.

The empty glass jar

Frost bites knife,
A stake upon,
Her living flesh of
Damaged skin,
Wounded heart

We were there (and now…)

                We were there when clouds burst and sky dispersed to millions of robust colors and vibrant strokes, summer breeze and ocean salt enveloped and exploded and we laughed into the sun, young hearts innocent and stupid and trusting.

Five fingers of mine between five of yours; ten fingers intertwined, perfect braid made out of skin.

We were there yesterday.

And now we aren’t.