poor dreamers in a world
where dreams are sold,

we are autumn's acid tears and
we are one and we are none.


                  i, am you - you are not me and
                  our reflections don't match. i am not
                  here but your face still shows.


breezes stand still. i, the
child of nature, listen to what
nobody has to say - the silence
in between the same word, altered
to tell something else as hollow.

i, the child of nature, blanket my
self in industrialized dreams and tuck
my feelings inside pipes to clog my
system.


                   i want to be you, you
                   have long fingers and if i had
                   them, i would pull clouds from the
                   glass jars we put them in. i wonder
                   why you don't.


you, what do you have
different from a stone or
the soil your feet push inside like
swallowing thoughts and making them scratch
the inner walls of your thro-


                    i had never, never realized
                    how i would prefer to let my fingers off
                    on the rough texture of your foggy words,
                    empty things you somehow fill with your fingertips.
                    it would be like exploring an unknown continent and
                    somehow feeling familiar. astray steps
                    and ashes of cigarettes never smoked.


blessed be the forgetful. for
then, i could - i would, i promise
i would leave everything, every single
fucking thing behind. they would stare at me
in blank thoughts and cloud patterns and they
couldn't clog the pipes in between heartbeats and thoughts. i would,
i promise, not remember. anything.


just don't, just
don't push me - this
is the last sappy poem that
will come out of my lips and your
scorn will wash away

    and i,
    once again, will be me and not you and
    we will be autumn tears and we will be
    two -

_{a pure friendship,
sparkling like
stardust.}

you know, i keep
my promises.
i really
do
.