There is always light

tell me another story

i don't know what it's like to leave a person, because i am never the one who eases first but i have spent years trying to understand. the cut of wanting it. the situation itself. the women i've loved would know. the knowledge is open, sharable but often kept in disguise. that way it keeps you four feet away from shame.

first, my father going from my mother. then, this. than it was her, a bouquet of flowers for devastating a moment, we had broken. i don't know what way that it, intended, intentional or mild keeping. it can also be harassing. her pretty voice was saturated, rushing- a thrush in leaves. she seemed a lifeguard submerging people to teach, but that isn't a teacher.

with a soaked emptiness under-neath. in palm, ground i shouldn't feel like this. i don't know why i don't want it to not hurt. it makes me feel formless the way she left. her lips biting my nose from a mile
"it's not you. it's me. i am sorry"

mid-summer, this lu already. the lawn grass has died of thirst and the creme brulee has significant success with burnt sugar.the flare of sun over the crust reflected to blindness.

there is a disaster in me, sometimes i just don't know how much it exists. to a level it might turn a hurricane or just remain a whirlwind.

sometimes i doubt the story, it isn't made to be told i tell myself. but the story itself, it isn't a resource to anyone but the medium is created to be conceived, the story is never for it's niggling. it demands to be told. as another story, as i asked you more (before)

tell me another story

you tell me thousand stories
midnight breezes, wild flowers and lavender zhypers motioning through inner senses

"that's it, that's all about today"

your eyes close*

"but tell me another story"