a poem brought to you by midnight, my neon pop, and a glass of wine.
What kind of seasons are you chasing? What position of the sun in the sky? The moon? The specific colors it gives birth to, just from their x point in space and time, that makes you gasp. That makes you all tingly. That makes all the blood rush into your head. Or flow carefully towards the tips of your fingers. That makes you sigh.
in the midst of history’s corpses, we continue to self-indulge for the price of authenticity.
Let us forget I threw away dignity, just for a second. Remember instead, the pitter-patter of my tiny feet under the tall buildings and when you thought you had something to call yours at last. You, with your camera. You, with your backpack. You, with nothing but the blessing of rain, strangers, and our matching smirks.
not all pasts are created equal, even as we wipe clean these rosy glasses—-or maybe it’s exactly because of that.
I’ve been looking forward to happy songs now. But I don’t know if it’s my genre. I am not sure if this is just another cycle, a pattern, bread crumbs to the same pit that gets bigger every time I walk into it. Each time, the ravens are unforgiving.
how is a revolution supposed to feel?