one table:

me and an

empty

chair.

no one could ever

sit there.

the fog of

a gone man

i swore would be a hero.

what did you do?

her lipstick,

nestled inside our coffee mug,

a strand of hair

hugging your coat—

taunting me,

(without you.)

what did you do?

songs of

laughter in the

past tense,

faded dreams

...

at the dinner table,

sharp silver clinks in an angry joust,

cacophonous screams

for the ketchup on her blouse.

he is watching.

the peas are lined like soldiers,

words are flung like knives,

no one notices he does not eat—

everyone’s talking about their lives.

they talk of the weather

as if it’s a person they rese...

_The song of finality is never heard. _

..~•<*+*>•~..

She perched at the earthy ledge of the moonlit lake. Her porcelain legs, admittedly stubby, stirred the hazy water in a mindless rhythm: push, pull. Push, pull.

He watched her, uncomfortable in the silence, sensing the precarious threshold between friendship and sorrow: a veil of lacy gossamer.

Suddenly, she broke it wit...

Mama told me he’d try

to uncover my rusty insides—

smear them all over with a warlike grin,

regret it not, for I would be dead.

But those hazel eyes are soft;

those eyes don’t belong to a killer.

Is he?

_Divinity. _

I see the gaunt, grave-dug craters in

his cheeks—

fit for a tombstone—

the red veins pulsing in his eyes,

his skeletal complexion,

his beady, voracious stare.

And… yet…

I s...

_ My Mother’s Force and Her Vitality _

_ (I Love You.)_

My mother is a force—an unyielding woman who protects only her own—yet her mortality humbles me. Those tender, timeworn creases by her tearful eyes, deepened by years of mirth and melancholy, make me cherish her vitality: her silly twirls, dulcet giggles, and shielding caress that remind me I’ve found home....

✧: ✧･ﾟ———🌊———･ﾟ✧ :✧

The wind blows my hair, as if nudging me forward. I’m standing on the edge again.

A mile below, everything awaits: sorbet rocks streaked with swirls glide into the cascading, coruscating ocean; diamonds sparkle in every wave.

My grief and the waves are sisters: each forever return, always in unpredictable forms—wayfinding back into certain depths.

I remember standing at ...

“Your hands, Boy.”

Dust sifted through the forest air, the only sound the old teller’s scratchy heaves.

“Give me them!” she snapped impatiently.

Ms. Melli turned over his palms, gauging them: dirt nestled underneath his nails with unkempt cuticles and calloused, sickly skin.

There they sat on a cobblestone dais; Rome watched with bated breath. For ten years, he had traveled through kingdoms...

Wesley’s bare feet sifted through the morning grass, cooling dew clinging to his ankles. The lingering moisture from the rain’s fog left the air heavy, and as Wesley paced through the village’s fields, his shoulders slouched with an unsettlingly heaviness.

The fields seemed to wilt with woe: the type of sorrow that held mysterious depth, not often uncovered. The trees wallowed in their roots, tw...

_Every night, the architects shape the dreams of the mortals, but when one architect falls for a dreamer, the boundaries between their worlds begin to blur…_

…-~>^*!~-…

Landscaping is extremely intimate. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying!

Maybe it’s because I’m young, that I don’t have enough control over my patience. But you try spiriting away into someone’s dreams—a manifestation of th...

Young Victoria stood limply in the center of the onyx road, a huge bloody fissure pooling on her flushed knees.

It wasn’t anything unusual, though, not for her. Her body already began to crack years before she could even lift her wand.

_Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. _

Two chasms, charcoal black, ran jaggedly through her forearms until they reached her neck. _Lightning Veins_: a condition that ma...