Notes on a phone, composed on a bus, on the way home


maybe all children want from their parents is an apology
to acknowledge that they tried their best
and the best they could do, was you.
forgiving them was never meant to be easy

Someone once told me that they felt themselves break in the arms of my embrace. Maybe all we’re looking for is to be held in love so our cracks can split and all the things that can’t be put into words can soak and soak and soak into shoulders and sleeves that won’t worry about drying. maybe it’s true, everything we do is a way to be loved more. or something to that effect.

the only thing we can’t do is lodge the bullet in our head.
instead, we wait and pray for an accident.
we send an invitation and hope for an acceptance from death.

our biggest flaw in knowing people is expecting consistency
how foolish to assume a happy person will always bring sunshine and light
how foolish to think every word from a comedian is the buildup or punchline
how unforgiving are we to find clowns aren’t funny and even the most jovial person we know cries

how strange that we fail to see this is all madness, this is all insanity.

i have a craving to stand on the roof of my house and exhale recycled nicotine into the the grandiosity of the universe.from where I tilt my head to gaze to the upward afar, my vision of the night sky is a circle and be it from city lights, city sins raised in city smog, all i see is a contained ring of stars, and beneath it, at the center, is the mockery of how i know myself as the egotistical “i”. even then, seeing only an window hole of astronomical size (that one day shall fall and dim), i can still look beyond and get a peek into infinity. in that, the entirety of the heavens are useless to me. and when i inhale, that’s what i’d like to breathe back into my sense of being.

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