5.09.2015

torn up shirt and washed up jeans

with every words I speak,
I knew right away it'll become your words.

with every story I begin,
I knew right away it'll become your end.

This feeling of uncertainty,
if you're ever coming home to me
if you'll be resting your head on my neck and shoulder
if my time will be yours to spend.

what is it so addictive about being saved from drowning?
that I have to drown myself over and over in your words,
your gestures, your smirks, your hopes, your smell, your heartache,
your ways.

you and your shadow that i could never chase and hold,
your hands that never really fit mine perfectly,
your breath that never really have rest,
your heart that is never mine to heal.

you showed up at my door with your mind so ratchet
and your heart is worn out.
you were tired and so was I.

you showed up with all torn up shirt and washed up jeans,
your hair all messed up,
your arm and neck were stretched so far out after trying to hold on to someone too long.
and there I was, welcoming you after taking up a too-long walks and jumps from city to city.
even then I knew I should have only say to you "It's really nice to see you, but could you come back later on a better day?" and close the door.
but I did just the opposite of that.

now you're on the bed, curled up with my blanket of words,
vaguely moving,
slowly fading,
eventually you'll disappear with your shadow
your hands
your breath
your wound
and your heart that is never really mine to heal.


wake up

the world does not revolves around you;

you are;

forgotten (and it's inevitable)
unseen
invisible

unless you do something about it.

speak up,
be brave,

make something out of yourself

dont;
stay,
sit put,
stand still,

things would not just be given to you,