can you drown beneath a shower?

                                                       ­                                      close my eyes
                                                            ­                          and see two souls
                              waltzing so smooth, as if the skies belong to them
                                                            ­           and the night is their stage
                                                           ­   they twirl and bow, every glance
                                                          ­                                     every contact
                                                         ­                        the slightest of touch
      igniting sparks that could burn wild and bring the world to dust
                                            and they'll flash in closeness to the flames;
                                                         ­                                        if in contact,
                            they'd burn like figures on a theatre's curtain frame

                                                          ­                 only behind the curtain
                                                         ­                           hidden in shadows
                                                         ­                                the play of eyes
                                    they exist in dreams, in hearts and minds alike

                                                          ­                       cohesive, cinematic
                                                       ­                            view them virtually
                                                       ­           they're the puppets of a kind
                                                            ­ their story written methodically

it isn't i who writes
or speaks
sitting bare in the artificial dusk
having been here before
done it, moved on
                          she whispers, why do you not cry
but oh, how do i put forward
the tears have been soaked up by the pillows
dried, it's been a routine
while it exists, you fear for the loss
when it's gone, the manual of the loss is tossed
far away, it's either nostalgia, or chance at frame
return back, or keep going
                i've been here before

like a deja vu
            the radio version plays
'mess it up' in queue
can't make a show of it
the void simply grows

it is i
       who awaits
when is the final turn
as the void slips the silk
over this being, whose half-submerged
deep within the murk

           isn't this is what you wanted

but what if there was a different outcome
situations at play, conditions at crossroads
merging it all, i'd see a different vision
a fever dream, unlike any before
so similar yet so different
              what turns twisted things
and how do i perfect the act of indifference

remembering the nights
             memories aren't anything
but moments you'd like to store
like pictures on a harddrive
to look back and think upon
        and have them come in the last seven seconds

could i relive
     if i had to do in the seven seconds
knowing there'd be no returning
        would she do it?

bleary, unfocused
     somewhere between too bare
too cynical
she sits, every blink counting for every breath
that resists itself despite the reminder of lungs

suggestions come up
so easy to whisper in mirth
       put the blames
   play victims
    but who is the one at loss?

                             losers
claiming expression
unable to enter
the world of the known
what's lived through, can't be scorned

it isn't her who you see
        an act of deception
you simply believe

the reality is far beyond
       tendrils of the night as they put on a show
peeks through like a child
curious, out behind a door
there's something about it
about tiring
that builds itself up relentlessly
eyes dry, mouths locked
   smiling at epiphanies

so do i give in
to her, as she treads relentlessly
      claiming it is time
live through the last seven seconds
       how better can they be?

do i give in
to all that's built upon
stacked like a house of cards
it might shatter
maybe come tumbling down
probably the rush of adrenaline
          or foolish put to silver lining's perchance

and what did it signify
when she settled
in the middle of the working system
locked away, behind the doors
in a room so bright, it was barely visible
two single glistening bulbs
resembling hopes in either corners
plugged up the earphones
            been here before?
for what worth did they await
settled behind everything
so in place
hiding perfectly well
        why the flicker of being looked for and seen?

when you cross the final bridges
      don't put out the fires at the end
or let the flames drop
these pathways can't be scavenged back
let the lanterns stay on
burning bright
i'll feed mine every moment i own
if it leads back, to a newer spot
a different beginning

alternate realities
      and the maybes
cross the boundaries to live
   let destiny in play
it'll be okay

why'd i trust what's up on the bulletin
     when the reality speaks tenfolds worth difference
why does it have to go along with the trends?




if you see her that form
close your eyes
let her know
she wouldn't want to be caught

overdosed once more
the prescriptions forgered
so the clinic says
vision is way too white
cloudy
smoke filled
              to see you
so i disguise

and i want to submerge
all the music i've ever loved
     within me
etch it into myself
just so everything someone does
something as a touch
a grasp at my shoulder or my hand
they'd listen to the voices play
words i can't say out loud
music that'll define me
    and everything i've ever loved or hated

i want to be built again
out of music
blocks of lyrics
glued together by mixtapes
attached at the hip
carrying cords
make me a playlist.

          what if we became the musical beings
                    found grace and love in the lyrics etched on our skins?

the human brain is conditioned
to signal pain when it's physical
which is funny
cause it's considered as aching
but the heart does this palpitation
where it drops
rebounds
returns
and you realize
                        oh, this hurts emotionally

and when u have a higher tolerance
late at finding out—i cut myself
it's in depth
that it's felt
mesmerizingly enough
every now and then it occurs

watched the weeds get cut
the extras off the tree
was it my own
or me on someone else's
either way the ones to remember:
i, who watched
the tree, who felt it being cut off
the ****, the first and foremost

the trees will eventually grow
forgetting
perhaps only remembering what the weeds brought
i, in fleeting passing memory
the new ones
not a clue
but the weeds
they'll remember
even as they dry out
lying in the trash somewhere
or being burnt
or put up with the misogyny the world offers
they'll remember the pain of being cut off
and how they'd existed in the first place
whose the right one in this scenario
              if anyone at all?

i'd want to learn
   the stagnant
of what is and what might
   rise again, with a dimmer light
shield the close
visions to those
who will cherish the bright
   like a phoenix, i just might