a scar is but a remnant of recklessness, they say.



and I watch as mine eclipsed a saturn return,aching words i should disperse ten years ago outside your doorstep, guts hanging low and the color of my bile, like over-riped tangerines.
you were all bourbon eyes, cigarette mouth and colossal sun-like warmth, but my hands are useless to evoke my need to slither inside your heart and build a fort inside it and stay there. instead, i am cocooned in the corner of my bedroom, twiddling thumbs and pondering whether your kiss meant something other than goodnight.



my gosh, ten years is but a three-second filmstrip in my cerebellum. and every feather that was once part of a bird, now rots in the loam soil of our pretentious youthful dreams. where you and i were sparrows, and the open fields of life eagerly beckons.
i am typing, slowly and fastly. by that i mean, i am tasting the words spilt dirtily on the screen, and i could envision you undressing yourself and i would mark spaces of your being with my sharpie mouth and hug you in splinters as you amalgamate into me, inside me, anchoring the very nucleus of my identity.


but now—

this is just a soiled bandaid talking, the scar that was once so prominent, now gone. and yet, the ache still remains.
the ghost of my many reveries still laughs with your face.

oh how i miss it so.