Night Sky.

"Evening."

Well, for the sake of the title of this post, let's pretend it is. Let's pretend it's dark out, and the sky is black except for the little, sparkly splotches of God's paint in the sky. You know, the stars that imply something greater, something humbling, maybe something even romantic. Let us assume you're thinking of impossibly philosophical notions and stuff- you're an amoeba in the universe; the earth is a grain of sand.

Let's pretend that you're falling asleep and the lights are out. You're in a blanket, it's cold; maybe you're not even in your bedroom. Maybe you're sleeping on the grass tonight because you thought it would be poetic or something. Maybe your headphones are playing Chopin. Maybe you're seeing things: people,equations, drink cans, books, cigarettes, test tubes, chairs, whatever floats your boat. Maybe.

 Maybe you're as stupid, and as touchy-feely as I am. Maybe you're not and you're actually studying for your exams. Neither doesn't matter. The point is, it is night. The stars are profound. Or whatever you want to think of it. Just... pretend, with me, for a moment...

"Evening."

Now, in preparation of the upcoming (self-) release of my first real poetry collection, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak,' I've decided to post a few things from one of my notepad files called 'Night Sky.' Pretty much all of the stuff that follows will be included in the collection and contains both old and new work: some as recent as last month (and yesterday); some as old as last year. Hope you like it.

"Have you ever noticed the meaningful nothing that speaks so loudly to you in it's silence?

It's called the night sky."

***

AN INBOX.


I watched our brief memories shatter before my face,
and wondered

About our inherent chaos and implicit shapelessness;
crying now

Before me. I meet grey scars in your heart-broken eyes,
cataracts,

Singing a siren’s song that drags me to drown with you-
I hate you

For bringing me back…my head had just broken through your waters…
I miss breathing…

                                      ...so, so much.

***

THE ADOLESCENT POET.


As you go about your business,
      at the back of the school rugby field,
you search her body with your hands:
      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

ONE WEEK AT SCHOOL.


Its a Monday morning when
I'm still trying to make out with you.
It's about half a year earlier,
and we're both late for class.
But nobody's looking; nobody cares.

It's a Tuesday afternoon when
we're walking with other people.
It's a few months later,
and of no consequence any longer:
I've written everything I've needed to.

On a Wednesday evening your sister is now
asking me online why you cry into your pillow:
what were my intentions, what did I want.
I'm trying my best not to tell her,
that I really wish I knew.

It's a Thursday morning again
when I still tried to make out with you.
I see you walk but we're both sure I can't.
Soon enough, no one would have ever noticed,
that in these spaces we occupied anything at all.

Then it is Friday, late afternoon when
I call you to tell you I love you.
You don't say why you won't say it back-
I am suddenly too scared to ask.

So now I am writing
everything I've needed to.

***

BEDROOM.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

mind and heart, faded into

murky mix of tiredness and loneliness;

to coalesce, to coagulate

slowly

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't check

if you miss me again.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

pen and paper, molded into

clarity of mind and heart,

of tiredness and loneliness;

together but separate

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't tell you

that of course I miss you (again).

But I'm thriving yes, even

though the only thing I have 

around me- books, books, books.

Even if I struggle to close my eyes

for fear of my own thoughts

pummeling me- books, books, books.

And this library of ever greater, exaggerated,

dramatic heights,

of me being sad for no good reason:

Why should I care if it's just me?

Why should you care if it's just me?

-the two of them.

I still go on writing,

for lack of anything better to do,

turning to the back page,

just as I scribbled all that math

over my draft of my portrait of you.

Both made so hastily in pen

-the two of them.

And earlier when I desperately, desperately

clutched 

at my dead, dead phone

hoping for some semblance of someone...

maybe you, her, him, me, them, us, who, someone-

I looked at that silly teddy,

a cute little gift I bought you,

and finally breathed in and thought-

Things would be okay, things will be okay.

***

LAST NIGHT.


When I put
this drink can
against my mouth
and the liquid flows past my lips,

I am reminded
of a moment,
of a closeness,
I'm not sure I should still feel

but do.

***

Coming soon (he says again).