Sometimes, life is as easy as opening a door to see the temporary tantalizing freedom the open sky offers. Other times, life is as hard as staying on two feet, tripping headfirst into another mistake, another moment– or hell, maybe even into another person. Life doesn’t ever give such warnings, never says that you’ll never be able to claim that spot you’ve been scouting for days as wholly yours, or to watch out for the slightly raised bar of the frame that wasn’t entirely visible in the shadows.

Which is to say, I most certainly did not trip. 

(There should be stickers for these every day tragedies, like getting random pieces of dust on black jeans or the flimsiness of human limbs. Something like: ‘congratulations, you possess no basic motor skills nor any semblance of hand-eye coordination.’)

Tears prick eyes like needles on raw skin, and everything– everything, is a torrent of fragile emotions waiting to spill over the brim of an all too hollow container. 

Time slows and speeds up with the people who rush in and out of the trains that have been pulling in for hours, perhaps days even. Each and every face is as distinct as the name of each feeling on the tip of their tongue, details forgotten as the words get stuck in their throat and the person walks out of sight. Forgotten here, tucked away in the shadows of a dirty subway station, dust collects on the unmoving figure.

Cameron wonders if Atlas carried sorrow in his lungs the same way they do, feeling their throat close up with every shuddering breath. They wonder how long it will take before their knees buckle to the weight of grief, pressed down into cracked concrete. Buried where they will not fight for their existence.

(excerpt of a mini story)

when has it ever been
as clean cut as we wanted it to be?

boundary lines drawn in the sand,
as if somehow the breeze
wouldn’t shift the lines,
causing them to disappear just
as the sun does beyond this
stretch of blue we’ve come to
recognize as part of our backyard

the thing about fairytales is that
they were never had beautiful origins,
didn’t always end in the
happily ever after
we’ve begun to expect as if
it was simply par for the course

(you’d put a bandage over
a jagged tear
and pretend as if it
healed perfectly)

fine like the threads of a spider web,
his hair becomes almost
transparent in the glow
of the moon,
and i swear i can see
the stars shake
when he startles laughter from
the depths of his old soul,
almost like the sound of mountains
rumbling in the distance
singing a chorus of old history
in the lines of their stones.

in exchange for a
slice of an orange,
he tells me that
these forests can hear
each and every secret
and the pines on the trees
have stories written in the green
have heartbreak in the cracks
of their bark,
have laughter ringing in their roots.

(he tells me he is just
the ghost of the forest,
and when he walks away
barefoot in the rich earth,
i find myself
believing his words)

you’d be surprised to learn
how many of the things that
lurk in the dark
are nothing but creatures
afraid of the light,

and even more so,

many things that wander
under the glare of the sun
are just monsters in disguise
and just waiting
to eat you up

(would you be
preyed upon?)

here’s an ode to my quiet lover
who embraces me when it’s needed
and lets me go when they must.
if anything,
i suppose it’s me who
doesn’t ever want to let go.

here’s to the nights that
you’ve kept me warm
and to the nights where
things haven’t always been so
clean cut and soft,
but still,
you’ve been there through it all.

here’s to the first touch in the morning
and the last before i fall asleep,
to all the times that i wish
i could have you
but know there isn’t much
besides waiting until the end of the day.

here’s an ode to that
inevitability
and a lover who needs
no love of their own

(yes, this is a love poem
to my bed)

messages that are from
one day ago,
two days ago,
four days ago,
three weeks ago,
sit in your inbox,
all waiting for a response that
may never come at this rate.

it’s not that you don’t see them,
it’s that there’s almost little point
in responding to a conversation
that you’ve no intention of
continuing at all.

they’re not asking how you are.
the world will not end
just because you’ve stopped
responding to a couple messages

so when you finally answer
one month later with excuses like:
oh i’m sorry i didn’t see this!
damn, my bad, just saw this today.
must have been buried in notifications
hope you’re doing okay anyways!
they’re not expecting much
from you anyways.

maybe at some point they’ve
stopped expecting any sort of
reply from you

(you’re pretty good at
isolating yourself,
aren’t you?)

hey stranger
how’re you doing there?

i’ve seen you around before
but i guess it’s weird
if i suddenly strike up
a conversation like this.

every now and then
i see you in the corner of my eye–
don’t worry though,
i know you’re not trying
to make me uncomfortable
or anything.

it must be because i’ve been
running away from you
all this time,
when really,
i should have acknowledge that
maybe you’re here for a reason.

hey familiar stranger,
why do you insist on
making me face you head on?

the first rule has always been
never to talk to unfamiliar people:
but here I am aren’t I

(i haven’t seen this
part of me in a long time)

“can i help you with anything?”
“maybe?”
“not a strong answer huh.”
“you’ve got me there.”
“are you looking for something?”
“yeah, i am. i’m just not sure what it is quite yet”
“do you have a description or anything that might help?”
“no. not even an idea really. all i can remember is that it aches every now and then.”
“sounds like you need a cure.”
“or maybe i’m just looking for the cause?”
“there’s only so much i can do sir… and not to be blunt, but it really is hard to help someone who doesn’t know what they’re missing”
“i’m not sure how to put it into words”
“i’ll be around when you can, but for now, i think it’s best you take some time to think about it”
“sorry…”
“it happens”

(“can i help you with anything?”
sometimes people just need
to sort things out themselves)