to a galaxy.

a smile, and what next?
there’s no guide for this sort of thing.
a genuine laugh, a touch
of colliding interests,
and now what?

two shining souls at a bar,
in a living room,
surrounded by two-dimensional
shapes—friends, that’s the word,

but what about you?

teetering between definitions,
a stranger, and yet,
so much more.

if I were to speak a bit softer,
and if you were to move
a bit closer, what then?
we say hello like it’s an introduction.

the conversation continues
like we’re dancing.

in your presence, I swear—
you make this cramped space
appear magical, a ballroom and us beneath
crystal chandeliers.

but I am unprepared for your ethereal
existence, the way you so easily
coax out my courage, my brash
thinking, or not thinking, only

feeling, flying, falling—

if you are a galaxy than I am
just one star. I am nothing
to your brilliance
and what does a star have to say
to the sky that holds it,
to the black velvet it has never been
afraid of but it has never really
understood, either.

I can see myself giving in to you,
piece by fragile piece.

there are too many questions to answer.
I think I love you but I think
I don’t know how to.

Nam H Nguyen I tried to stick to your prompt but the poem sort of spiraled away… I hope you still like this one. :3

our tragedy.

a part of my soul reaches for yours,
and we are eternally
entwined.

in the silence, we exchange a bouquet
of I love yous
and we expect the pain to fade.

as soon as our hearts stitch together
you decide to rip out your sutures,
so now I’m left, open, empty.

desperately I try to save you
as my own saviors come running,
but you’re in my arms so they don’t bother trying.

you are the angel in this relationship.
aren’t you supposed to guard me?
salvation isn’t supposed to feel like dying.

you clipped your wings and asked me
to fly the both of us to safety,
but I am dust and you are wind–

you pull me along,
I go where you go, and darling,
you pull so roughly.

I still have a million unpresented declarations
of undying love and unending forgiveness.
they’re waiting for you in the back of my closet.

so we’ve reached a sort of tranquility,
and on the edge of this cliff
you start breathing

so I deem us saved and you agree,
as my feet slip on stones,
there you are reaching.

everything is okay, right?
the scars are all healing, the bleeding
has ceased and the bathroom no longer calls

your name from the pink hallways
we wandered as children.
the air is biting–

all the fight has left me.
I’m sorry but I wasn’t trained
for this kind of existence.

our story is unfinished but I haven’t
the strength to keep writing.

artist.

she is fascinated
by the human body–
especially
the insides, the parts
you never see,
unless you specialize
in ripping apart flesh
to find the muscles
underneath.

she sketches beating hearts
& working organs.
does she know how she worships
the struggle to live?

she draws lines,
effortless shapes,
over paper, over skin
that is her own, but sometimes
she does not believe it is.

allowing ink to seep in,
allowing her existence,
that thread of vibrant, aura-like

life

to ebb from her fingertips
& onto the colors she spills
on the canvas.

she labels her art
as her pain, her expression
& yet, it is her joy,
her healing
also.

we are only strangers.

let’s agree to meet
in forgotten shops—
we’ll settle in the same seats,
following the other’s footprints.

if it just so happens that our paths
cross, let’s toss up a smile—
chat, mourning, over our fragile kind
of proper conversation.

you and I will fill the aisles
with unrequited love—
forget how often we’ve counted
all the miles spent apart.

your mouth might need some time
adjusting to my name—
sound out the syllables
with only traces of affection.

but in a dusty corner, tell me
how much better off we are—
only so much chaos can be caged
when two lonely souls merge.

if we once called each other home,
we should have seen this coming—
it makes an awful lot of sense
that we find ourselves abandoned.

“We’ve been lonely / we’ve been lonely, too long.”

This is in response to tuckedintoacorner‘s post, found here. I found a way to slip the daily prompt in there, too, lol.

apologies.

there are words that always float
on her lips, like the pink gloss
she swipes on before a date.

the words are usually
mumbled whispers, directed at passersby,
on her way to work, squashed between strangers
on-board the train.

sometimes, the words are accompanied
by a bubbly laugh
that she uses like a shield, a way to keep
everyone from looking further.

no matter where she goes, those words follow her.
she drags them along by a string,
tugging without realizing.

she despises the words
but she can’t exist
without them.
they are like the buttons on her coat,
the elegant curls in her hair,
the way her smile works only half the time,
half the way she wants it to.

she wears the words,
the dreadful syllables, like battle scars.
let her look you in the eyes
& say them

I’m sorry.

I didn’t spin this web.

my house is a spider web.
we are the spiders,
& sometimes the flies.
sometimes we are the silk threads
holding the whole thing together,
spattered with dew drops in the morning
& moonlight at night.
except, we waste food
& pay electric bills,
which I don’t think spiders do.
we have sit-down dinners
& sit-up commands from Mom.
we make our beds after much reminding,
pulling up covers
over last-night’s troubles.
I don’t think spiders do any of this.
I think they are better off because of it.
sometimes I want
nothing more than to escape this spider web,
but, in that case, I am
just another fly caught in the stickiness.
most times, it is not so bad.
we are spiders but we are family
& that can be good.