#two cigarettes

• Constantly.

• Everything is a reminder.

• Every plan was real. There was hope in ever second.

• Heartbroken.

Things desired and attained broke my heart. Grasping Hands at Holy Dreams, heartbroken ghost of myself.

• It's shorter now. And under the window. Weird yes. The wind helps.

Like Fresh Scar tissue always stands out on my skin.

• Yes, but I wouldn't even know where to start. Or how to be comfortable. Casual

Sister is going into labor today, I've been in Cuffs, I beat Mike in Chess Finally.

• Happy?

I'm not sure. Sometimes. Feeling if I pursue that fruit, if I get it, I must surely Die.

• Missing You

Hurt, by you. In a way I can't rectify. Missing all pressure, missing all comfort at the same breath.

• I have. More then few times. It breaks my brain. Remembering some moments and what happened before or after the photo.

My pains I remember. My highs of happiness and forehead fridge denting lows.

• I like waking up earlier. I like making the bed first thing. I miss....

Single Orgin Pour-overs, Desk work, Shadow Work, More words typed and written and paint and ink marked with salted drops.

• I have written so much. To you. For you. About you.

• Yes. I like matching colors. Feelings like I'm matching which memory is least painful with which shirt matches my socks.

• They were for you.

They live with me now. A strange relic. The never opened part of an outfit on a hanger I cant escape the gaze.

• I am still learning to care for myself. My feelings threaten me for so long. I'm not sure what's happening in any moment.

• Yes. Perhaps, rather, unfortunate.

• Wine Wine Wine.

Ive Drank the Case myself to forget all the Connecting Threads.

• Of course, I don't endeavor to be a monster. Just a man trying his best.

and Perhaps that makes a version of all the great monsters.

• I hope for peace. I'm scared. Of what else I can say. I feel raw and worn down to the bone. And I have no plan besides survival and growth.

I need the void to open before me, the great and yawning mouth of self-destruction. The Abyss of Creation.

As inspired by my Uber driver

Nematullah

(the blessing of Allah)

The knowledge of death is our greatest gift.

The end of all things is nigh.

What beautiful scenery to play background to our lives.

The end is nigh!

But tonight we drink wine and kiss.

Death and destruction come with the firey heat of a hot soup on a cold night.

The END is nigh!

The last drop from a bottle. The last drop from a second bottle.

The end KEEPS BEING NIGH!

For tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. They have already ended.

Yesterday is before us. Telling us we are built of yesterday's, and of tomorrow's hope.

BUT THE END IS NIGH!

Shouting in every second and screams pouring out of my pores.

Please smoke this spliff with me. Please share this cup of something stronger then the knowing of our gift.

The end is nigh. Say it very softly as you stab Me. Say it so sweetly as I stab you back.

Rugs that are scratchy on your feet and knees.

Blankets that are soft like dysfunctional love.

Doing something which you know you might fail.

Not failing. Failing.

A White Dress on a hanger. Not being able to throw away a Jacket.

Holding a memory that's painful and wonderful.

Outfits that clash.

Grocery stores stoned.

Every kind of juice I can desire.

Nostalgic tuna melts, shrimp pasta, cold white wine.

Tomatoes

Catharsis.

Knowing a person so well.

Like painting a roofline.

Seeing behind boards, only the home knows.

On scaffolding I can only trust because I built it, as best I could.

I knew every risk, and took them for the sake of love.

Terrifying.

Reaching out into space with only my confidence beneath me for 25ft.

To show appreciation and affection.

Old Oaks I may never see again.

To give and hold Nothing back.

Share wine.

Share books.

Share effort.

Oscillation being the nature of goodness, there are peaks, there are troughs.

Goodness is found in the Hard moments of secret quiet immolation of your Heart.

Lighting the Joint the Wrong way.

Paper flavor and a burning chest.

A cough so bad it makes me wonder why I love this best.

Love.

Smoking to get away.

A hole burnt on this pillow case.

Remembering every different look on your face.

Smoke.

Together sharing a Joint, then Two, then we each have something different.

Mine with the tobacco that makes my blood rush.

Yours out of Fairy Glass I knew you'd love.

Love.

Smoking as my medicine. Not a necessary evil, a gift to maintain as necessity.

Finding you gave me hope, that if I smoked enough, I might find peace.

Now to find peace, I find I'm Smoking less.

Smoke.

Thinking too much. Reveleling in a penance ashtray. The glory of all the beauty in the world is in that dirty re-purposed bowl.

Love.

The way you sit and hold that joint. The poetry and the notebooks.

Smoke.

Feeling Space.

Terrible Void

Terrifying pinprick light of Hope.

Holy broken space.

Holes of my mistakes.

Mismanaged Pain

Unbridled movement.

Sitting with Wrongness

The absence I feel.

Places filled with you in every moment.

I would hold my breath unconsciously. No self destruction intended.

Just forgot to breath.

Or.

Liked the control I felt over my own lungs.

I feel that way now. Reminding myself to open my chest. The living. Stay moving. Trying to explore the awareness of being a Verb. There is no way to make myself nothingness. There is no way into myself.