The story

You are a wonderous piece

Of my imagination;

I have created you

Out of a single thought,

An image stuck in my head.

Breathing between seconds,

Counting time between the heartbeats

I pray for you not to end.

An empty room:

I filled it with you.

Every letter of you

Creates a story,

A story of you.

And maybe me too.

Sentence by sentence,

It grows and fills the room.

Once the door opens,

The story will be over.

Will you be the one

To open the door

When there is no more space

For me in it?

I have built a throne

For my imagination

And let it rule the broken kingdom

Of my dreams,

But the crown

Will always be yours.

It is crafted from shadows in

The deepest corners of my mind,

But it still shines brighter than

Your eyes.

I have lost the game.

Hide-and-seek is over,

And I cannot run away

To hide again.

My inner voice is telling me

To stop.

Should I trust it?

I can feel it staring at me,

Demanding to open the door or look away.

The door…

Is the story over?

I cannot tell.

Pinch me, I think I am dreaming,

Because you do not exist.

You are just a wondrous piece

Of my imagination.

Absurdity of the windy vaccuum

Squeezing my heart with bare hands,

Trying to grasp the last sunlight of the day,

I can’t feel my feet touch the ground.

My ribcage is opened up

And my hand is wrist-deep inside;

I’m trying to stop the seizures

That the scorching tune of your voice makes me have

Everytime I hear it.

I turn hot, I turn cold;

I’m in the middle of a typhoon,

Not seeing a way out.

The absurdity of the windy vacuum I’m in

Brings the quiet words that you’ve once said.

They aren’t going away.

They tangle around my wrists

And push them deeper into the ribcage.

The seizures have stopped,

But I can’t let go of my heart;

I keep squeezing it until the vaccuum blurrs away

And I can’t hear your voice anymore.