Here we are. I’m half-sober and you’re stamping
on a cigarette like it killed the last person you
Here we are. Outside the party. No stars. Only street lamps.
Talking about other people’s
tragedies to avoid
our own truth.
And you love me.
In a push you up against the wall kind of way.
In a put my tongue in your mouth kind of way.
Your tongue is sharp,
I am going to paint you something beautiful.
I tell you.
And you leave me outside in the dark.
I am painting you the darkness.
I will paint in the stars.
Aquarius: Stop running away.
You’re at a concert. Music flashing, bodies pulsing.
This darkness. It hides within bursting
lights, your screaming friends.
This could be something beautiful.
You text me.
I want to drown you in milk.
Peel away the innocence like the shell on a snake.
And I love you. And I want to bathe you in honey,
wash your feet in my hair.
Aquarius: Everything will be okay.
Here we are. At the edge of a roof. Why do I always
seem to meet you
I am painting the lines between the stars
that join the abyss in meaning.
I am painting you.
my lucky stars.
You are always too far away.
Here we are. The high street, to long after
the lamps have turned on.
And you are close enough to touch.
And you are still too far away.
Here we are.
The only thing left that we haven’t tried.
We are meeting in the middle.
Here we are.
Silhouettes in your kitchen,
shadows on your stairs.
We are painting in the stars.
Sagittarius: Everything is okay.
The stars tell us nothing.
The stars are merely pretty.
You are my abyss.
You are boundless.
And nothing can hold you down.
Sonder - Emily Breeds
There is a part of the station
where trains once blinked
in and out of existence:
a necessary part of most peoples' lives
(but easily overlooked).
If you stood on the platform
and watched the flash
of red and blue and grey,
you would briefly
touch eyes with a stranger;
if you blinked,
you'd miss a whole host of them.
No one thinks anything of it
when it happens.
But all those people you tersely
connected with, all those people
with their own stories
as complex as yours,
the person in the blue jacket
holding onto a bar because
all the seats have been used up,
the girl holding a lukewarm
polystyrene coffee cup,
the light of a window
whilst you walk down a dark street,
the screeching rush of headlights that nearly hit
you as you hurry across the road,
mind clouded with the terror
of what could have happened
had you lingered
they're all gone now.
The trains are as still as winter air,
forever waiting in their dim tunnels.
And our lives are all moving along the same track,
united with need of shelter and survival.