poor dreamers in a world
where dreams are sold,

we are autumn's acid tears and
we are one and we are none.





i, am you - you are not me and



our reflections don't match. i am not



here but your face still shows.


breezes stand still. i, the
child of nature, listen to what
nobody has to say - the silence
in between the same word, altered
to tell something else as hollow.

i, the child of nature, blanket my
self in industrialized dreams and tuck
my feelings inside pipes to clog my
system.





i want to be you, you



have long fingers and if i had



them, i would pull clouds from the



glass jars we put them in. i wonder



why you don't.


you, what do you have
different from a stone or
the soil your feet push inside like
swallowing thoughts and making them scratch
the inner walls of your thro-






i had never, never realized




how i would prefer to let my fingers off




on the rough texture of your foggy words,




empty things you somehow fill with your fingertips.




it would be like exploring an unknown continent and




somehow feeling familiar. astray steps




and ashes of cigarettes never smoked.


blessed be the forgetful. for
then, i could - i would, i promise
i would leave everything, every single
thing behind. they would stare at me
in blank thoughts and cloud patterns and they
couldn't clog the pipes in between heartbeats and thoughts. i would,
i promise, not remember. anything.


just don't, just
don't push me - this
is the last sappy poem that
will come out of my lips and your
scorn will wash away

and i,
once again, will be me and not you and
we will be autumn tears and we will be
two -

a pure friendship,
sparkling like
stardust.

you know, i keep
my promises.
i really
do
.