existence.

"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)

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106. Town Trips

 

My week has been filled with absent minded remarks and eyelids melted with fatigue

and vanilla candle wax,

a misplaced blur of nonchalant lessons and lunches that I seem to find myself ever loving

and I cannot tell if it is the weight of his arms and the way his fingerprints

seem to feel on my skin or if it's the closing

unity of a group that seems cracked like a shifting ice shelf.

 

Today has flowed with a beautiful eruption of events that seemed like more than just

sitting in plastic chairs to the smell of ink pens,

a sequence of street signs and shop lights and order numbers that held more elegance

than a week trapped in a prison of school.

 

I think fondly of the walk home and the pictures locked tight in my phone

and despite my foolish appearance,

I treasure them as gold and hide myself away in the amber glow of my bedroom light

thinking of him again and trying to clear my mind of the feel

but it seems stuck like his mark.

 

Damn.

 

-6th February 2016 

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