#forestsuggestion

black clothes and ghost choirs. unheard footsteps on the dark pavement. smoke and reflections on the lake of another forest. drunken laughter and bloody kisses. bruised heels from running barefoot.

I know it gets dark early now and the tired is setting in and everything sort of feels blank and hazy and I just want to spend ages staring at walls thinking of nothing. and so I sit, with gold in my thousand eyes and waiting, doing exactly that. a misplaced flash, fade in, are you mad because I don't know what you used me for? I was searching for something as I watched you run and I still can't place it. yeah, I'm depressing and nihilistic and cynical, but in a casual way, right? chill.

I led myself by the hand. without even destination, we kept walking. fluffed clouds were floating in the sky. I already know what will happen to me when I wake up. maybe nothing but a burden, perhaps I held on too tightly. blinking. floating. ending.

rodomel and vodka. I say I'm fine and you say that I've lost my sway and glow. I don't know if I'm still sad or just exhausted; I'm always tired. like the hazy feelings of subways and rest stops and bedrooms at 4 am, empty neon bowling alleys and roller rinks, deep bamboo forests, the moment of realization of what's happened and that you're dying. 'why do you weep? did you think I was immortal?' asks the sun king. 'as immortal as a candle.'

I am constantly winning a losing battle. I tell myself: may all my wounds be mortal, and every breath the last. may the fervor unfold you in my place.

sometimes this purge will happen: the evening will cut this connection out and dance. so we paint the city purples and silvers; so we bleed and we bleed and we bleed. so I forget what it means to taste. I mouth your name like I have forgotten the lyrics. you were the first beautiful thing i’d ever known

they choke back a couple more and they’re swallowing stars as galaxies spin through their gut. there’s grass swaying at their feet and it tickles and the smell of rain is flooding their sinuses and their head whirls. there’s a breeze rippling across their skin that whooshes in their ears. they tastes the moon on the tip of their tongue.  they watches, frozen, as their legs dissolve into soft cherry blossom petals, and their midsection is disappearing now too. floating.

He had this insomnia; it wasn’t incredibly chronic or anything, it was only sometimes, but those sometimes were long nights of fragile fingers. He over-thought things, and then he panicked, and it was horrible to see him like that, unable to move or breathe or speak. Often he got nosebleeds too, and the memories of waking up in the middle of the night to his (my) ragged breaths and blood stains on the white bed sheets, blooming like poppies, wasn’t heartening for anyone.