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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96. Following Fingers

 

My mind is still plagued with his voice and touch and

amongst my phone are the pictures of us in positions I can only describe as an attempt

to cover my face as he bares his arms,

so in an attempt to distract myself from his dangerous safety,

I put my finger against the haze of fairy lights shimmering in my window and trace the outline

of their glowing bulb as steadily as my

shaky bones allow me.

 

Windows are far more beautiful than I ever really thought about.

They blur outside like the feelings of your inside

and reflect what's rushing on the outside of wherever you are straight back into your eyes

for you to absorb the scene.

 

I should sit on my windowsill more often and stare at how nothing really happens

on the outside because sometimes

the world seems to stop revolving and we all just lose ourselves inside of somewhere and

the cars and trees and clouds lay dormant as we all encase

ourselves in buildings and technology because this is the presumable mess man has become

and part of me loves it

yet part of me wishes someone would just walk down the street so I could

debate their life story and what their eyes have seen

as I see them with mine.

 

-3rd January 2016

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