- I feel so dry. So dead. Unpoetic as fuck.
- I know. Summer was a big brown stench but I was beautiful back then, blinded as we were by the yellow. I don't feel beautiful anymore.
- I hate it here. I want to go back. Go home. I just want to stop existing for a year or something.- I know. I lack the poetry to console either of us.
- It's so bright here. The lights, they are too bright. They seep under my skin.
- I thought it would get better with the rains.
- Rains spell poetry, don't they? Well, not for us, it seems.
- We believed in so many little dreams. We were two birds made of stardust, of love talks and spilled poetry.
- We are left with their ghosts now. The shadows of what was once was.
- I want to love again.
- Back home, the lights were always so dim, the kind you get in a rented flat. The light never got through because of all the dirt around the tube. No one got it cleaned. And yet. I just realized how much of a home that was, and this isn't.
- You could turn them off.
- I could turn them off. I would, if I wasn't so scared of the dark. It's so easy to sink into. So tempting. You can't see the shape of your body. Too real. Too free. There's no escape.
- Don't be suicidal.
- Why do we treat suicide like a sin anyway?
- Because, it is tempting. And anything that is tempting is a sin.
- I miss the mess I never felt obliged to conform to.
- I miss the mess too.
- I am sick of the organized spaces, of the white. It chokes me, makes me stand out. Makes me small.
- We have dried up, haven't we?
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||