ajulea

i. The muddy moon hangs low in my window pane, rusty red on the edges like my love for you, strong but tired, strong and tired. ii. November nostalgia settles like a crescent wound between my sternum and a floating rib, the cavity cold…

October, you’re the backyard harvest of homegrown goodbyes, packed into cardboard boxes with holes in them, like pumpkins from the patch. You’re the sleepy sunbeam that throws longer shadows on questions that were dug up from their graves…

It’s half past twelve and some ticks, neon blue lights on dark streets flicker in storefronts and fizzle out; the rain slows down to a drizzle now. During the dive, the clouds confess I reek of moonlit loneliness. Is it a sin to feel nothing…

September, you’re the light brown on the edge of grandfather’s diary, where the ink spills into crumbs at the moth eaten margins. My desire to hold on to his words are a laterally inverted image of his intent to forget his hardest days,…

Adulting is riding a damaged boat into the middle of the lake without knowing how to swim and praying it won’t capsize. It’s bubble wrap therapy on long days when a sugar high and caffeine blood aren’t ammunition enough. It’s a bright kid…

Replace your silence with the patter of rain. I need a lullaby tonight. My eyes are brimming with lack of sleep and the darkness of lost battles are spewing like ink from crescent moons under my tired eyes. Be my lullaby tonight….

last equinox, under a marmalade sky, I buried a box of your empty promises, like a bag of rocks, tied to my heart; and therein lies a crux – how are empty words not weightless? my heart was buried by a dried up creek, too heavy to…

I wait like cracked bricks and peeling paint, like a pencil stuck between sharpener blade, like a blue flame of a dying lamp, until I forget who I am….

light rain on the night train mists up the window pane. the distant sight of street lights blinks by like fireflies. a winter breeze dancing with trees stirs up our goodbye kiss. is it a crime if silly rhymes help turn the wh…

I wrap the night in a blanket of silence, which has patches for every time it tore from the sharp intake of breaths between sobs induced when I was used enough to ignore. So when you gifted me the cold shoulder, I mended my blanket by using your…