Poetry spills from my lips so it’s harder to write when I have someone to kiss.
On a hot as fuck day in October, we kiss. I make it a point not to remember the day because I promised myself I wouldn’t be sentimental anymore. So, I didn’t. All I did was numb myself to it as it washed over my existence. It built up beneath my mask until I scratched it out.
It’s a starry night in December, the shit poets dream about, and we are still together. Poets dream about things like this too; pushing deadlines till they cease to exist. So here we are somehow existing beyond our shelf life, stumbling drunk from the bar as I lean on you, I tell you I am attached to you.
It’s hot again in January but now the heat is different. A paradoxical heat because it brings forth destruction in a month of new beginnings. We reached our shelf life. We burnt it all and we each carry equal blame.
On a foggy morning in February, we are drifting in the unknown, we talk about the Phoenix. You said sometimes we must burn to create. We will burn again, but not today.
Poets describe love as a fever that cannot be put out unless the beloved is within reach. Maybe my words are a symptom of that fever.
“We were prone to so many disasters — lives lost to suicide, minds wrecked, hearts marooned in the backwaters of time, bodies burning with pointless obsessions — and we gave each other a hell lot of trouble.”
– Pinball, Haruki Murakami