apricity in ink

infinitesimally smaller than life are these moments that currently consume my being i watch my verse only fall short to those generated and those who can piece away their embarrasment from pangs of grief don't read and reread unchanging leaves and i now tell the walls the makes of my dreams and trust in a bot to celebrate my feats.

and i think it's beautiful; the way we carry forward a piece of every person we ever meet i will hear in every laughter, my father's santa chuckle when he's watching his childish films and gets to work right after i will look for in every friend the patience of my dearest who knows not how much i appreciate her beneath words i've never penned i will feel in every page the rants and notes passed predictions from an oracle printed up in braille i will see in every smile the dimples i once loved and hug the bunny ears across from the sweatshirt aisle and with these pieces, i find; even when i am broken i will always feel complete.

and i wonder if one day she'll start writing about you too just another poet who made you her tragic muse i'll tell myself it's a coincidence that her writing's just like mine that we somehow just have mutuals and strangely similar lines i wonder if you see us as all the same figurine vastly different shadows with the same darkness beneath or maybe it's just you that always yearns to be a muse and when the verse stops selling you cut the spine loose.

and somehow sometimes the dullest streetlamps illuminate familiar roads far more than the brightest ones.

the oil spills glitter under scorching heat as potential withers under lacking conscientiousness herald the miracle that turns barely scalded hands into sinewy hardworkers.

and when i will be mature enough i will realize i need not seek comfort in any boy but my brother and need not cry to any man but my father i need not lay bare my heart for anyone but my mother nor discuss my woes with anyone but my best friend skepticism will precede every word i spill over for everyone who only saw my worth as a sponsor or a lover.

and when you lose the one that made you lose another do you rejoice or grieve double?

i didn't wish you happy birthday this year i'd tell myself it's because it's been years. more years of not speaking than years i'd known you. that it's because i treated you terribly, spoke vainly and never cleared out room in my heart for you. i kept putting it off, the pretence of someday was my little white lie. but retrospect is a horrible thing. a spear that reminds me of all that could've been, of how i didn't lose an admirer, but a friend. a friend who almost instilled religion into me, who made me love gothic literature and dystopia, who obsessed over math until i almost liked it and wouldn't have dared to dream until i let them. i know it's too late. the castle has crumbled and my instagram was deactivated for good reason. but every may, i shall sit in the rubble. and never wish you again.

we convince ourselves there are no villains nor saints until we hold on to the wrong ropes love the wrong people and neglect those who condense for our rains stay out of the shade, we run into the sun scald and gray, for all the wrong people in all the right ways all the right people, driven away.

the philanthropist turns miser marred by humanity just as we turn strangers marred by love and just like that the altar becomes the grave

overwriting the same words with a better pen, only makes it more illegible.