we are not the end of a movie

when my plane took off,

there was no camera behind

me, no fade to black, no credits

rolling up to tell us the parts

we played in each others lives.


only left with the drifting

delirium i was lured into;

distance growing as we

created apocryphal manuscripts

out of broken typewriter keys—-

typesetting unanswered emergencies

like the night you huddled against me.

remember? how your body quaked from

the cold as we watched the ghosts

hover around our window.

the next morning we had our coffee in

silence, shaking off the break of

character we exposed each other to.

our shadows intertwining in the sun as

we get lost in the sacrifice we could not

bring ourselves to make. you, were not

ready to love anyone, but you still ripped

the voice from my spine when you tried

to return us to anarchy the same night.

some ashes need to remain buried; so

i’m writing this as an apology letter to

the both of us, for how far i let things

go; for carrying the snow from your

homeland so i could remember the

stillness of your touch. and though

i have forgotten how you look, i

still remember your taste when the

cold trickles along my body. such

manifestos are born out of addiction,

contracted by your hands