Take me as a definition: a surface-level heart that drowns in
deep thought, quietly pondering love, quietly grieving loss.
Loss not just for someone; a loss for most words. Because
when you’ve been dealing with a lot, you stop explaining
and start enduring.

Take me, for example: yesterday I had a conversation with
myself, but it sounded like I was addressing the ugly stuff,
the versions of me I don’t post about. Getting a little older,
I now feel the subtraction of duration settling in my bones.
It’s not pain exactly. It’s more like time knocking without
waiting for permission.

Multiply that by multiple misfires, all the times I believed,
in my head, that I’d finally found the one. Now, I’m left
divided. Not between people, but between the stories I told
myself; the truths I keep avoiding. Insanely rich with poor
results — "wait, that doesn’t add up." As that’s the math of
memory: it never balances the way love promises it will.

Still I need a leg up, not just to raise the hopes of this tired
heart, but just to step out of my despairs. Because lately,
I’ve been third-wheeling the very idea of love; a tagalong
to a party I used to host. And when it comes to falling for
someone with a previously broken heart, you learn quick:
it doesn’t come with a spare.

I’ve realized love either helps you make strong memories
or leaves you with the memory of a sus stain. You can’t
always tell which until it’s already on you, and by then
you’re already trying to scrub out that which you hoped
to sustain.

The Arithmetic of Almost-Love.

The brand of our skies lingers — soft kisses
drifting through the air, and I seem to lose every word
except for one whisper: “I love you.” As our love roars
like an anthem beneath a midnight sun, where my tears
have soaked the tired pillow of a heart that rests only
on the thought of you.

Each rhythm of speech stumbles into another pause
before a kiss, and like the taste of a wish granted, I find
my voice again, always to speak of you in reverent tones,
for you stand atop the mountain that houses my heart.

Your eyes; perhaps they’ve forgotten the worth of time.
There’s a watch not on your wrist, but bound to your leg,
always stepping over it.

And while the sun maps out your days, the moon is a pin
dropped at the final stop. Tomorrow isn’t promised —
no more than a compliment from a stranger. And just like
that stranger, it stays nameless until you dare ask its name
by dusk. Where the Sun Whispers, and the Moon Waits.

maybe it was me,
was it my very presence,
stopping you from light,
The light that gave you reason,
to finally live.

I miss your warmth,
but not only the physical warmth,
that boil under your skin,
like it was made to warm me in cool nights,
but the warm thing your smile,
in the words you spoke to me, too,
but I'm not supposed to miss your warmth,
since you are the one to catch me fire

The healing process starts with the wound,
A broken bone,
A fractured piece of scaffolding.
There might be something in the way,
Distracting from the injury.
If you fall backwards,
Hit your head and land on your wrist,
The pain of your head is most prevalent.
So it gets iced,
Immediately it feels better.
But after icing it too many times,
It stops hurting the way it did,
You start to notice the pain in your wrist.
That doesn’t go away when you ice it,
Even if you try to ignore it, it’s in-ignorable.
Now that the smaller pain of your head is gone,
You start to notice why something still aches,
The real wound is a broken wrist.
So you get a brace,
You tell a doctor what’s wrong,
They give you something to make getting rid of the pain,
A little easier.
You wear the brace for a while,
Until you get used to hurting with the brace,
But you still don’t like it.
So instead of letting it happen,
You adjust the Velcro,
Making the brace tighter to help you better.
Until the doctor decides you don’t need it anymore,
You’ve healed.
But you’re still sore,
It’s going to ache at first.
When what you’ve missed because of it sinks in,
But people point out how you’re happier.
Then you realize,
It got better,
By taking away the injury,
You healed.

Music from another time
Begins to fill my ears,
And my mind gets flooded
With memories of then.

Memories of happiness,
Warm like a sunny day in April;
Memories of love,
Ever-consuming and euphoric;
Memories of agony,
Hollow lies and hollow heart;
Memories of confusion,
Fog flooding my mind at all times.

But there is one memory that stands out more than the others:
The memory of my death.
How I slowly lost my spark,
And was too aware of the cold.
How I slowly lost all meaning,
And just wished for an end that felt real.
How I slowly lost myself,
And I wasn’t sure if I was worth knowing anymore.
How I slowly died,
And I didn't even realize until I built myself up again.

I didn't die with a last breath.
I could feel my lungs inhale and exhale the air.
I didn't die knowing I was dying.
I thought I was getting better.
I didn't die, in my head —
I kept moving, too fast to notice.
But I died in my memories.
And realized only now.

But I was born again.
I'm not writing from my grave,
I'm writing from my pedestal.
Like a statue rising from cold stone,
I carved myself into someone new.
Painful, like sculpting pieces of myself out
From the block of marble I'm working on.
Slow, because I only have my own hands
And no other tools to work.
Strong, like the quartz
I chose to use and cherish.
Elegant, like the lines and curves
That I'm chiselling.

I died.
And when I tried living again,
I got killed.
But I already died twice.
This time, I'll grow wings
And be the strong phoenix,
Returning from the ashes.