tears become my own personal waterfall drops turn into rushing currents of the mississippi i’m the only one here the birds may visit in the morning and the tadpoles are too little to engulf me human connection isn’t here the boats pass harbors leaving me the most still of ponds

so, who’s going to die today? because parts of me do each evening cells rebirthing just to lose life the life of moribund existence

my worst fear is dying alone for no one taught me embracement abandonment of touch yet, in your arms, i found my home where death consumes us both

the list would never end almost like the concept of space not only in our galaxy but out in the universe where expansion is expanding my love for you is absorbed by the unending, the universe we claim to know but really only I know the true way to your constellation even if you are moons aways light years cannot distance us, for you bright luminous among the others proceeding the quality of polaris my north star for I always find my way back to you

i’m tired of the light let me soak in the darkness that’s a galaxy away or a tilt from evolving into the eternal nighttime that cures my sunshine forced mind inflicted on by the star who secretly wishes for clair de lune

It was a quiet morning, the town covered over by with darkness and at ease in bed. Everyone asleep, the alarm clock yet to ring read 3 am. The moon on schedule, casted a hollow glow, the witching hour has began.

(Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury)

inundate me until I’m full of your love don’t let it wash away in the floods

the wind doesn’t get the hint stop being pushy with me & the unnecessary treatment for no one wants you here even the squeaky dock being a poorly built pier for you are annoying like the men in my dm’s who don’t understand my hatred for the wind as nature bound i am i don’t like ur pressure

don’t think about the movie you watched last night nor listen to the soundtrack on repeat the film becomes part of who you are for the remainder of the week

on display in terrarium of moss and artillery fern the last garlic snail never to be spotted just a speck of russet is sealed and completely forgotton