The City Looks Different.

You can map the sprawl
of city life in the twist of
veins beneath my skin,
trace my blood flow like the shifting of the earth.

The rhythm in my chest matches
the beat of your wanderlust; the blaze of
lights and the familiar hum of crowded streets.

The oceans in my eyes are nothing
compared to the constellations
on my lashes, the curve of the
mountains in my smile.

Nature is attached to the very breath from
my lungs, the heady scent of earth and
rain clinging to my fingertips.

I am a crystal clear day.
I am a thunderstorm.

You just press kisses to
my rivers and valleys,
whether violently raging
or eerily calm.

your head rests against the branches
of my heart, your arms entangle in
the roots that span my ribcage.

(I can’t help but wonder:
are you in love with the metropolis
that sings beneath your hand or the girl?)

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I was tired of scrambling around to find the good things. I was sick of trying. Tired of lying. Sick of watching the masquerade that played around me. Who was real and who was not? Tick, tock, I was running out of time. Out of energy. Out of will. Out of self.

I was burning to the ground. Falling as the sun crisped my wings. The blood was staining my hands. We all fell down.

I longed for the innocence of a child. The naivety. The imagination that could create worlds without having to sleep. I needed someone to light my candle. Replace the wick. I was going too fast, trapped in a box with no sound.

The ocean was crashing over my head. I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in. Wasn’t anyone there? Can anybody here me?

(Is this just another story?)