Blink

A space for the thoughts in my head.

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Adrift

as thistle, snatched by passing wool.

Sun-warmed fibers,

a careless servitude I cling to.

// t.f.

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Ever wonder

how the wonder

faded from you?

-t.f.

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"How are you feeling?" Lost. Like I don't know myself. Like I should walk to the shoreline, lay down, and wait for the tide to take me out. -t.f.

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Since the day you left, I haven’t written a single word. My fingers are numbed by the touch  of your ghost. I guess you inspired [consumed] me. I still look for you everywhere I go || t.f.

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Finally, I feel them -- the first signs of breaking -- my ribs, unhinging, your shoulders, bending away; familiarity caught under my sternum. I wonder if you have already begun to let go of me.  - t.f.

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Leaving. Un-leaving. The way you hold something, and then let go. I think that’s how it’s supposed to be. For most of us, it’s not very comforting, so if you’re feeling uneasy, you’re not alone. On Getting Onward || t.f.

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                    I beg you to spend your time                            battling the mundane, dull and static days.                                 There is no life if you                           do not find a way.                                      - t.f.

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I want to believe you when you mutter that you’re sorry; when you say that you love me. But today I feel every ragged inch  of the hole you ripped in me,

the hollow red and burning; the walls still drip, drip, dripping, and every morning my mouth tastes of blood and coffee. I am tired of spitting my insides out in the sink. This doesn’t look like healing. You don’t look like grief. - about you, I don’t believe anything  || t.f.

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Whispers of my former self lay dampened in the carpet  of the house  that my lover built long before I ever agreed to be there. I return to its vacancy. I walk barefoot atop the dust. I lay down, thread my fingers through the fibers. “Give them back,” I plead. “If there still exists remnants of me, before this, give them back.” Silence weighs down on the cacophony wreaking havoc inside my chest -- the anger  like a dead body in my throat. Dust in the Carpet || t.f.

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I caught myself trying to catch my breath, remembering the effort it takes. So long I had been holding back what my heart already knew I should have said. My voice felt flooded, too loud for my own head. || t.f.

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I love[d] you. - t.f.

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If the sky were the color of your eyes, then so too would it be the color of the ocean and I could swim forever,            and be lost forever,                  floating endlessly with you                     til I sink beneath the waters               and take my final breath                                -- a breath of your soul --                                      that fills me up                                    and takes me home.                                           - Ocean Eyes || t.f.

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“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

I do.

Except when I know you don’t.

I can’t answer without giving your secret away.

t.f.

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I shed my selves as often as my body sheds its skin. It's easier to keep moving when there's no one here to miss. - One Reason People Find it Difficult to Understand Me, t.f.

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I just wanted to break something.  I wanted to punch the walls, throw every lamp, smash the windows... Everything I touched I wanted to shatter, I wanted to tear it all apart. So I walked to the center of the room; lowered myself down till I was squatting on my toes. For a few minutes, I just balanced there. And then I left. In another world, I slam my fists into the mirrors, crash chairs on the floor, and work my way along until my feet are buried under pieces of this house. -t.f.

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“All good things must come to an end.” Not just the good things. Besides, we were never good. We were terrible. We drank goblets full of the other’s silence and said it was for the best. -t.f.