the frozen streets remind me of how i sometimes get. how easy it is to be cold: while still beating underneath. it’s never the darkness that slips us up, but the patches of light in-between that promise

what if the road to awakening wasn’t lined with: gems, crystals, chakras, and mantras. but instead: long walks in the woods, whiskey, poorly timed jokes, and people who think differently. perfection isn’t

It's very rare to have a spark as what we had. Your mass has a terrestrial gravity on a poet immortal soul such as mine. On this, I affirm with no doubt. I also, blame gravity for keep crashing our moons