As you continue to wear the sunshine 

That was once enough for the both of us 

Excuse my moonbeam 

Excuse me as I reflect everything that I once believed I was 


without the warmth 



that kept you around, once.  

I miss a lot of things.

And i’m not sure whether “things”

fits the meaning

or whether “a lot”

is an understatement

or whether “missing”

is adequate

to explain how this feels.

I miss a lot of things

mainly you

and i’m not sure whether you

is me

was me

or something that made me, me

or whether “something” is fitting

or why I no longer am.

It scares me 

how much I care 



not about you or her or him or them 

or it 

but about everything. 


How I feel in tsunamis instead of waves 

and being dragged under is made easier. 



How I long in octaves unknown to even myself, 

that resonate in shorthand treatment. 


I feel, with a great passion. 

For and about and because of 


they told me you would be my remedy on the rainy days 

and you were

my everlasting sunshine amid the showers

but when the storms rolled in heavier than ever before 

you were no where to be found 

and when i was struck harder than ever before 

even after the storm my life remained 

a charred version 

so stained and sealed shut by the power of the blow 

that your rays could no longer find me 

or at least i would like to believe so 

that you were still shining 

and circumstance

was the only barrier 

and i think, often, about

how i may be blind to your presence 

because i can close my eyes

but i cannot find a reason 

as to how i shut out your warmth 

help me 

think of reasons

for in all honesty 

i cannot remember 


even hearing about the sun 

My fingertips are no foreigners to the feels of a metal’s smooth surface, or how chilly it may be

my body less than shudders at the alloys instilled in me. 


I wonder how a child’s hand sends vibrations of life when it’s encompassed in mine

but to feel their presence within my own anatomy takes quite a length of time. 


Must the metals break, jagged and cutting through, for a sense of their presence to be found?

Must a child engulf my every sense for an acknowledgement of their whereabout? 


I can’t help but wonder, helplessly, if for cognizance I must be overwhelmed. 

Maybe this could, partially explain, why I’ve failed to keep things at helm.  


On most days quite fine, not a care in the world

till ignorance is annihilated and I helplessly hurl 


How feasible it is to convince myself: I am content 

While slowly my insides are bent-


A void overwhelming I cannot ignore,

my own being I begin to abhor.

a whirlwind inside cannot be escaped, 

in it’s exigence I find myself draped. 


From this phenomenon I cannot hide, 

neither can I attempt to put it aside. 

Pristinely clear for all those who care to see, 

my dictionary of being’s slowly being confined to me. 


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