If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

Δευτέρα, 17 Αυγούστου 2015

I Used To Write On Walls

I stood on the familiar corner of whatever and whatever.

Cigarette between my fingers.

I look up at that gorgeous summer night sky.

I bring that cigarette to my lips.

I inhale.

I am where I used to be.

Standing on a familiar corner.

But I breathe you out.


Out and up and away.

I dropped you in a sea as deep and dark as my soul.

Am I free? I don't know.

But on that very evening, on that very corner I know the very little detail of it, I breathed you out and watched that smoke dissolve into the nothingness of the night.

I'm here again.


And this time, I didn't keep you with me.

It was unfamiliar.

But soothing at the same time.

I looked up at what used to be my window.

Took that final drag.

And threw you and that cigarette butt away.

I felt lighter walking up the street after that.

And as I meshed into the noise of the street I told myself "Kid, I don't know how, but it's gonna be okay".

And strangely enough, I actually believed it.

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