dot my i's with eyebrow pencils

first lone signs of a season i am not able to recognise which should not be here, now suddenly months start appearing shorter and shorter and painfully drag on while this breeze struggles to keep melancholy at bay

and if i could for one moment be everywhere and  in all things express all the voice that i cannot find the courage to raise and waves command, through a horizon of possibilities that are not enough for a lifetime and too many for one this time around the tempest is not letting me in i am, drenched, barefoot, barely breathing incessantly walking through it.

i do not miss my home -as home is a chewed up and spat concept as if four walls and five rooms and a bed can make up for an eternal longing- i can make up for it as I pave my way through an adulthood I don't feel ready for with clouds of grey smoke in my mind a constant red alert for a blizzard that never starts up but always lingers metaphor after metaphor I have reached stability as an acrobat walking on a thread not one inch above the ground i do not have voices but I do have one and that I will exert to reclaim my own power.

mine are senseless words scattered upon a page in a twenty second long breath that will never leave my lunga because there is no oxygen to reach them anymore and my inability to breathe has become the heaviest cliché to burden my existence my wrists pump with motions of the brain that let them free to act of their own every movement a knife a ruthless stab to my rationality how am I supposed to not think about it when my whole physical body does nothing but remind me of it?

my stomach belongs to some other entity that squeezes it flat until all of my fears are being vomited out my bloody mouth it's a story that's already flown by by the time it can be told by the rising wind of stopped up throats, a sink that can never be cleaned out that could never be fixed as lightning piercing through the curtains landing on the windowsill of my lips i still can't breathe

i can’t find rest anywhere, anyhow tension triggers my muscles like sharp violin chords if I move, i’ll fall if I stay still, i’ll crumble down i can’t find rest no possible way how do you walk when you feel like a puppet propped up by steel chords that make your limbs ache and tremble and shiver through warm coveted days of spring if only the wind could push me further gently away from a shell that’s slowly rotting

falling from the children swings in the red and brown leaf coloured park, dirty laughter exploding against cold breaths october sends tiny chills down both of their spines, warning for colder winds that have yet to come everything is warm and the leaf carpet spread throughout the whole park makes it look like a faded out polaroid photograph she pulls herself up from the ground looks around, no one in the thin mist fingertips frozen, empty glances to a sky that is far too blue for a day like this she considers going away for a split second then sits on the ground, leaves crunching beneath her and she closes her eyes months have passed already her sense of time keeps failing to adjust.

fog and sky with a touch of dark mist and laughters, laughters muffled with hiccup and bright coloured hair apple, lemon and mint dissolving in a breeze of chaotic songs blurted out by gentle voices three or two on a couch, the distinction up to the bare minimum of tangled legs, and what if I told you my racing heart beats to the rhytm of your irregular puffs in and out in and out I would not mind if we were to be locked up in here forgotten for a split second you would maybe never know or maybe you wouldn’t mind while your head is resting on my bare shoulder and you’re softly smiling if it is to me or because of me I would never know or maybe I wouldn’t mind

-does it still burn? -yes, it does. -still? -yes. I told you it still burns. -it’s been a month already… -and I still haven’t got over it. -do you think you ever will? -sooner or later, yes. -sooner or…later? -I don’t know. do you think it’s not normal? -I can’t just give you an objective opinion. -and then give me your opinion. -don’t ask me about it; you already know. -and then what’s the point in staying here discussing it? -you just need to reconsider/reassess the seriousness of this whole…everything. -you just said it as well. it’s an “everything”. it can’t just go away like it was nothing, it can’t just go away so easily and so quickly or effortlessly or I just can’t do it like this anyways -it WILL go away. soon. I know. -he already went away. he already left, that’s what you don’t get.   -what? -the point is not letting go of things. said things already ran away long ago, and that is the actual problem. -the gist out of the whole situation? -the heart of the matter itself. -what are you going to do, then? -I’ll wait. -you’ll wait for whom? -what. -uh? -what I’ll wait for, not whom. -I’m not following you -no, me neither. -repeat your entire reasoning. -I’m waiting for a sensation. -what? -of relief. -relief from what? -from the non-stopping uncertainty of everything. -that everything? -it’s not over. -do you feel it? -has it just never been maybe? If I’m here, it is here too. that everything. I feel it. it quivers. under your feet do you feel it quiver and shake? -I don’t feel…I don’t feel anything. -listen to it. I can’t anymore.

flowers stream and cover the road with bursts of coloured breaths they look wonderful and they’re everywhere as majestic as carpets of scarlet and cream roses and turnips may be i cannot breathe they’re suffocating and crawling deep down throught my throat the flowers are taking up the space in my lungs the flowers are replacing the oxygen i used to breathe and you can shove how many beautiful things you want in my mouth and make me chew on them and swallow them to make me better you can try to fix me by showering me with beauty and expect everything to be picture perfect again you can try to but i can’t breathe