Just for one day

"It's funny how time can make a place shrink,make the strangeness of it all seem ordinary"

Half a butterfly wing buried in gravel,
An empty bag pack and the last lunch box ever.
The last one minute of silence spent  staring at OMG carved out on the wooden desk top.
The day feels infinitesimal and infinite at the same time,which is kind of symbolic of how school feels on the whole,maybe.
The waking up- and -sulking about it being Monday morning,always running a second too late for assembly,scribbling a few sentences at least of last night's home work,dancing at the end of last period on Friday,loving the contents of your neighbour's lunchbox more than yours,struggling not to giggle in the assembly line,making up intellectual quotes for the thought for the day,Bullshit-ing through the tests and bunking in the hide out.Oh,and special mention to all the lost stationery that strangely disappeared each day.It all seems so stretched out it becomes normal.In the end,it always seems so surreal and the finality never hits you on time.
And all the hurried scribbling on t-shrts and notebooks on how much you'll miss your class mates can never come close to describing that feeling of knowing there is a definite end,and awaiting it but not quite a anticipating the swiftness at which it seems to have arrived.You'll never wake up groggy at 7 am running for the same kind of normal anymore and you'll probably not see a lot of the same people again or have the chance to know them better and that's overwhelmingly bitttersweet.

Roller coaster

We held hands and ran through the crowd,
and that's the happiest blur I remember feeling.
The ground never felt lighter beneath our feet,
as we ran towards nothing,away from nobody.

There are no pictures of us,sitting by the bedside,
only stories we keep telling ourselves,
pieces of the past,for,memories,songs,and words
cannot be preserved in a couple of frozen frames.

Remember when it was dark,and we whispered,
under the covers,and fingers  against faces,
delicate as the tips of a paintbrush,caressed,
the next morning smelled of the salt in our tears.

And then,

you left me,like a stale,late Sunday morning,
The heavy sigh smelling of alcohol,
the emptiness,that of a house where nothing
was ever good enough,nothing ever would be.

We were always a time bomb,waiting to explode,
it was only a matter of moments,seemed like centuries.
who were we kidding,we were born volatile,
and losing a part of yourself is never easy.

Days then dissolved into a void in time,
I counted each of them like a domino falling,
floated like a feather on an autumn afternoon,
Because I knew I would never find myself again,

Never find you.

Hair line fractures

       Broken bones reveal themselves in x-rays and we just let them be,heal with hours and days
But why can't people and places just be,too?Why are we not immune to change yet?
Maybe the fault's in us,we live off the cheap consolation that  it'll all come to a stand still in the end,
that today matters just as much as yesterday.
Somebody said to me recently,what's the point of living in the past?Well,what's the point of this pointless plot?It all flies away the same.

But we care anyway.
And you can never change the things that change you,you can only live with them.
You can never change how looking into someobody's eyes for the last time feels like,
or the first time someone made you feel special with a couple of words,
How it felt to be small and helpless in a world spiralling out of control
and how sometimes,broken hearts only heal only into empty cavities,bearing bullet holes holes inside your chest,
Stitches on old wounds always stay for keep,faint reminders of pain that teems.

Lemon Drops

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky
half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice tea is all that's left for me

Waking up to a world world without you,
feels like swallowing the smell
of liquid bleach,drowning in it.

There's no better way to describe this
and it really sucks to keep tugging at
 your presence only left in dreams.

One dimensional thoughts and origami hours,
Shadows of when you used to call for me
with soft taffeta sounds,scratching the door

I always liked abandoned houses,and empty tables,
away from crowds,old and forgotten,
and clear orange sunsets,it's all I find solace in.

The pink sun leaves me too,
a eulogy of country music for him-
our silence sits like poetry between old journal pages.

A dry flower lies pressed in a paper napkin
on my lap,a gift from a stranger,
but my lips can longer find thanks or prayers.

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky,
Half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice,and a dry flower,I have plenty.