/A letter to light/
If my letters don’t even reach you and neither do my poems, why am I still writing? For whom am I still writing? Sometimes I believe that the only thing that reaches your body these days are arms pressing your neck. Arms with no faces, just hands and my spit dripping down them.
You smell like sense, the least of which I like. I’d rather smother my body in my boyfriend’s arms who’s trying to kill himself than to smell you. To make sense of what home is to me, I’d have to paint my lips of the same sense which I despise. But my lips are dry, no matter how much whiskey I let them taste.
Noor, for you, poetries were like painting your eyes pink so that people wouldn’t notice how emotionless you were.
Writing was like breathing hot breath into my ears whispering roses, each of them with a name. None named after me.
For me, a poetry was your eyes looking into mine.
Noor, I don’t love you. I just wish you hadn’t arrested my soul in your art journal. I wish I wouldn’t smell you in everything I touched. I wish I could find you again for the last time, and give you all of these letters which I forgot to post.
From the boy who’s getting more comfortable with his skin
No art for this one. Was just tired. 😵😵.
I feel like writing letters nowadays. I don’t know why. 🍹🍹🕺 Tell me what you think of this one. This is the third post I’ve done in a sort of regular-ish manner. I feel happy about this. 🌺
Thanks (×infinity) for reading.