He Is So Much Like Me, Talking To Him Is Like Talking To Myself, Looking Into His Eyes Is Just Like Looking

💔

“I’m not afraid of dying. Pieces of me die all the time.”

— Sage Francis

it is true, we do not know the existence of something, until it is felt in one way or another. the sunset was not known, before its brilliance in crimson, blush, and magenta was seen evolving across someone’s vision. thunder was not feared and hidden from until it was heard booming into a person’s eardrums. sunlight was not warm until it gazed upon a strangers naked skin. and i am forever misunderstood until my words land upon the hearts that need them the most. and what could be more prevailingly real than that.

i knew what i wrote was real when it scared me to write it

I write because I am wretched, because I must make moan to someone or something. I write because I shall soon be dead. These lines will be the cold remains of my soul and thoughts and love, as my body will be the corpse of my warm flesh and blood. I write to declare my faith, to obtain pardon of my sins, to weep, because my tears strangle me and will put an end to me.

Juliette Drouet, from a letter to Victor Hugo, written on 1834

Jamil B. Holway, tr. by George Dimitri Selim, from Grape Leaves: A Century of Arab-American Poetry; “Throbbings”

I felt something unexplainable in my chest and there were flowers growing inside my veins. My heart stopped and that moment felt like eons. Eons full of ecstasy.

-anneshwa

𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝟸𝟾, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

[ID: sparkling, inextinguishable eyes. END ID]

An euphonious evening,

amiable collection of hues,

changing forever,

till they're hugged by the darkness.

The sky plays beautiful rhythms,

and tunes can be heard for moments,

before silence grasps everything.

The beauty of a rhythmic sunset ✨

-Anneshwa 🌻

Oh, well.

others: trauma

me, an intellectual: p o e t r y m a t e r i a l