Look, these writings
are soft-spoken memories
they are still tender.
Look, these writings
are soft-spoken memories
they are still tender.
Familiar sounds
now echoes, echoes, echoes
I stand and listen
How foolish of me
to mistake you as a ghost
an absent haunting.
You tell me of spells
that have lingered on your tongue
speak of them now, please.
Memory fragment
walking home in thunderstorm
my feet, they’re still wet.
Yes, there’s light outside
but there’s spirits in the curtains —
they tell me to sleep
Evaporated
fog crawls on all fours outside
a fading abyss.
You helped me see past
all of my poorly-drawn selves
helped me see color.
Now let the words be
release them into atmospheres
of the unspoken.