Unrelated Collection of Sentences
These days, more often
then not, I choose
my loneliness, like a gift
that cannot be taken away.
I still miss the muddy water,
the sweat and dew stained skin,
the angry phone calls at 11 pm,
the grief before death, the endless
expanse of what could be reflected
in what is, cat scratch tattoos,
homemade piercings.
I’d do it all again, roll the boulder
up the hill once more,
even knowing that it’ll fall,
just to cherish the view
from the mountaintop.
On my knees in an empty chapel
on a frozen February night,
I heard the whisper from
the coming storm, and whatever
it said, I believed.
Whether I rush
to the sadness now or wait
for it to find me later, it’s all
the same.
Here we are in our early twenties,
all these foundations being set,
bricks etched with questions
that have no answers.
My unnamed captor was once
sunlight, now old and faded
scar lines like constellations
in a light polluted sky, and
I cannot fix the wound
of your absence.
