𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖙

This is my hell.

[lehermit]

Tongue.

Haunt my mind and pull me near, Draw every wandering thought to here. Cloak my heart in what is you, In every scent the night once knew.

Whisper my name into the air, Tell the wind you still are there. Let it cross the distant blue, And carry back some trace of you.

Melt a dagger, thin and bright, Upon these broken words of night, These fractured lines no tongue can claim, Written by hands that know not my name.

Haunt my heart and bend my days, Lift my thoughts from their careful ways. Come, then, haunt me, wild and true, With every little thing of you.

Spill your perfume against my pane, Across the world, across the rain. Let me breathe it, though you’re far, Let distance fail beneath each star.

Haunt me, darling, with your love, Like something sent from skies above. But leave me not that hollow silence, That dreadful ghost, that mindless violence.

For love may haunt me, and I’ll stay, But silence steals the light away. So haunt me with all that you are, Just never with the silence from afar.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Juat wanted to say that your words are one of the highlights of my day. Thank you for sharing.

Oh dear! That’s so sweet of you to say! Thank you for your kindness <333

[ang3lllbabyy420]

[lehermit]

Aevum.

Time sat beside me and said nothing.

It watched the nearly imperceptible scar I carry on the wrist of my left hand, the mark your fingernail once left behind. The mark remained. You did not.

There are stories in this world about loves like ours, loves made of tears, letters, impossible declarations, and the desperate rituals of people who believe love can defy anything. I throw myself beneath your high window and call your name. I wake your frivolous family, so devoted to rules they never follow, and tell them that I love you.

Time sits beside me and waits while I make a fresh cup of coffee.

It tells me we are children. It tells me we will die children, still carrying our rules, our doctrines, our secret desires hidden beneath mattresses we have never thought to replace.

Time laughs.

It tells me I will never learn what it has been trying to teach me, because no one ever does.

It tells me that time passes through us completely, yet we still fail to understand that when something is gone, it does not return. Perhaps time itself never leaves. Perhaps it merely moves beyond our reach, carrying everything we once believed we could keep.

And in every drop, there are three times at once.

Today, the sun came out.

Tomorrow, if it chooses, there may be a tornado.

Yesterday, we were something we will never be again.

That is the cruelty of it.

Not that time passes.

But that it takes versions of us with it.

And that is the end.

Time laughs.

I cry.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Untethered.

Ordinary days, fuller than empty, louder than silent, seem to contradict the last words once written. Yet they do not erase them, nor the terms once spoken, nor the comings and goings, nor the definitive departures from all that should never be returned to.

From the window of the same bus, I noticed establishments opening at different hours. There always seem to be more tables set for one than for many.

A table for one, please.

It is only my heart that lies down there, weary from what never was. There must be some hour in the sky, invisible to our skeptical and sorrowful eyes, when the paths of our already written destinies finally cross, somewhere between life and death. And yet, none of this diminishes the beauty of being.

A table for one.

It has been this way for some time. I am not afraid of solitude. I change my own locks and turn off the harsh lights of this house. I wash my own tears and dry them. I stitch myself back together from the inside out.

A table for one, for a single exhausted heart.

There must be a destiny already written somewhere, one I have not yet been allowed to read. Perhaps there is a path laid out beyond what I can see, some invisible thread running through the days, the departures, and the returns that should never be made.

But I have turned off the lights again.

I would rather look upon the carpet of the night sky beneath a moonless sky.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Aeternitas.

There are days when, if you ask me what the things of life are made of, I will answer that they are made of the remains of the explosions of the universe.

And the universe is infinite.

Therefore, everything is almost infinite, and an explosion is not an ending, but only a new beginning.

Everything shines.

Everything shines.

Everything shines.

Everything emits sounds that human ears are not always capable of hearing.

If you look at me beneath the sun, you will see the colors of my eyes changing, carrying shades of distant skies and forgotten lights.

On those days, I put so much sugar in my coffee that I cannot even drink it because it becomes too sweet. I say good morning to the baker, to my enemies, to journalists, to researchers, to poets, and to flowers.

There are days when, if you ask me what the things of life are made of, I will look at you in complete silence.

And I will answer that we are inside a black hole, unknowingly being pulled toward the great nothing.

Everything is vague.

Everything is vague.

Everything is empty.

On those days, I close the door, and the coffee is bitter. I drink it without thinking twice. If you look at me at night, you will see my eyes filled with tears, not because of the darkness, but because of the unbearable weight of being, of remaining, of continuing.

And all I want is to disappear into the silence.

I say good night to the moon.

I close the windows.

I close the curtains.

And I hide.

There are days and days.

And if, in either of them, someone dares to mention your name, to question your absence after all these years, I answer in complete silence:

I never tried to forget you.

It would have been a waste of time.

Because some things are not meant to be forgotten.

Some things remain like echoes after an ancient explosion, like stars that disappeared but still leave their light behind.

And I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

Le Hermit

[kosmogrl]

they weren’t kidding when they said the only way out is through

[lehermit]

The Diary of Vanishing.

That night, I watched my veins pulse toward nothingness. Every dream was carried away by the wind. I watched the letters never written drift through the window and fall to the ground, dissolving into puddles left by a rain that had not yet fallen. I mistook it all for my tears, already dry upon my clothes.

There are no doors leading back. Every path carved by our hurried footsteps leads only one way: toward goodbye.

Goodbye.

That day, I felt my back split open between my scapulae as my feet lifted from the ground. Higher and higher, I looked down upon the rooftops and discovered that clouds are soft and frigid, like waterlogged cotton. Soon it would rain upon that frozen desert overgrown with forest.

I surrendered my thoughts to gravity and, for the first time, felt happiness.

At last.

My thoughts fell silent. I scarcely stopped to wonder where my wings were carrying me.

Only at the end.

Back to the ground.

Where everything ends.

Where it began.

That night, I watched my veins pulse toward nothingness.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Four.

I closed the door.

I took a breath.

I left a blank canvas leaning against the wall, tested a color upon it, a mixture I no longer remember, a shade born from unknown hands.

Did I know what I was going to paint?

Or was I going to discover it somewhere along the way?

How much time has passed?

Two days?

Two months?

Four?

How strange.

I wrote down the new flavors of the festival pies. I always end up choosing the same ones, lemon, passion fruit.

A little obsession.

A familiar sweetness.

But alright.

Next time, I will try the pistachio one.

Six phone calls filled with other people's storms.

And not a single place where I could truly lay down my own.

Even if I had one, I don't think I would.

Talking too much about myself feels almost unbearable.

Hours later, the thoughts return:

"Ah… I said too much."

Sometimes, I have not even told half of what hurt me.

I climb my own mountain.

I push myself upward.

I drag myself downward.

I force myself forward.

And I plant a little flag on the peak of another useless thing I did just to pass the time.

This note is one of them.

Written in the corner of a recipe page my mother once gave me.

I will not test it.

I know only she can make it the way I like.

Writing is this:

I can search for the most beautiful words.

I can arrange them carefully.

And still, the interpretation belongs to whoever reads.

You may find yourself here.

Or you may imagine me as something fragile, crying on the floor.

Perhaps I am the villain.

Perhaps I am the blade and the wound.

Read it again.

I read it again.

And I disagree with myself.

How funny it is to make art.

Not every shade of blue is sadness.

Not every yellow is happiness.

blah blah blah

flag.

Le Hermit

[bryanjamess]

[lehermit]

Boring.

It is easy to recognize when a poet writes from a love they have truly lived.

It is almost unbearable.

"I woke up this morning and lost myself in your beautiful eyes."

Oh, how touching.

So your muse is still sleeping beside you?

How terribly ordinary.

God, I envy the tragedy of being loved.

"Heavens, I do not want to leave this bed because the person I love is still tangled within my sheets."

For the love of God.

How cruelly beautiful.

I wake up alone.

I fall asleep alone.

The silence knows my name better than anyone ever has.

You can always tell when a lonely poet tries to write about love. The words betray the emptiness between their hands. They build the warmth of a body that never rested beside them. They invent perfumes that never lingered upon their clothes. They grieve memories that were never granted the mercy of existing.

Art is a beautiful wound.

Christ.

My love, I wish I were that kind of pathetic.

The kind of person who complains about finding strands of your hair abandoned upon the pillow.

The kind who sighs at the kisses left upon their skin.

The kind who curses the scent of you remaining on every garment in their wardrobe.

I wish I had loved someone capable of destroying every obsessive ritual I have built around order and cleanliness.

Someone who could leave chaos behind and make me understand that not every mess is something to be erased.

That some forms of disorder are proof that something beautiful was once there.

That some things are worth the ruin they leave behind.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

You write so beautifully! I spent almost an hour reading your poems over coffee. The way you write about love, then death… what a whirlwind of emotions.

I noticed you don't have a bio, was that intentional?

I think I took a while to reply to your message. Sorry about that. And thank you for giving a little of your time to read my writing. I really appreciate it.

kkkkkk… btw writing a bio about myself feels so unnecessary. I stutter enough just trying to introduce myself. "H-h-h-hi…" Like Porky Pig from Looney Tunes.

Maybe one day I'll manage to say three things about myself without stumbling.

<3 <3

[lehermit]

Counterfeit Bloom.

Not well.

Not well.

Never well.

My mind murmurs it like a mourning hymn.

Not well.

Still I rise.

Still I work.

Still I wear the mask of flawless routine.

Useful.

Faithful.

Fruitful.

Yet empty.

Empty.

Endlessly empty.

Once there were flowers inside my mind.

Wild flowers.

Wanton flowers.

Flowers that broke through bone and bloom alike.

They tangled themselves around every thought until even silence carried the scent of spring.

Now they have become flowers of plastic.

Petalless prayers.

Perfumed lies.

Beautiful without breath.

Bright without blood.

They stand around me like mourners before a coffin that has not yet been lowered into the earth.

Patient.

Polished.

Pretending.

Waiting for the day my pulse finally joins their stillness.

Cursed.

Cursed.

Forever cursed.

For nothing is more terrifying than a flower that never withers.

Nothing is more monstrous than beauty that cannot die.

And nothing grieves quite like a garden that forgot how to bloom.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Daedalus.

Oh, love of my life,

what a dangerous name to give you.

It is to sign a contract with God and the devil alike,

to accept the possibility of dying alone with your name still carved inside me.

It is to grow wings made of Icarus' wax and mistake the sun for a home.

It is to lock myself inside a garden maze full of flowers,

to dive into the deepest ocean and find nothing but darkness.

It is to hold you within me when you never asked to remain.

It is to fall at your feet and whisper,

look at me, please, look at me,

while other lights continue to awaken your eyes.

And perhaps that is the cruelest thing.

Begging to be loved is the moment love disappears.

Even the devil, watching such devotion,

would feel pity.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Saturn, I said.

Its rings.

Its impossible congregation of moons.

And Neptune,

all that blue

as though the sea had wandered into the sky.

Mars,

another voice said.

Mars?

Who would choose Mars?

Before the question had finished echoing,

an old wanderer crossed our path.

Excuse me,

is this where one buys a ticket to Venus?

Silence.

Then we looked at one another.

Venus?

Who would choose Venus?

The old man smiled,

not because he had heard us,

but because he already knew our answer.

He thanked no one.

Adjusted the brim of his hat.

And continued walking,

following a map

none of us could see.

Le Hermit

[lehermit]

Tic Tac.

I can feel my lungs tightening beneath the breathlessness, as though even the air has grown too heavy to enter me.

There are days when I feel larger than life, days when nothing can touch me, nothing can stop me. And then there are the others, the quieter ones, when all I want is the darkest corner of this room.

Eyes. So many eyes.

Watching from the corners. Waiting for me to fail.

So many, many, many eyes, and still they barely see the countless failures I carry inside me. There are more failures within than there are outside. More ruins beneath the skin than anyone could ever count.

I do not want to leave. I do not want to know.

This house is not a home.

Only good structures left unfinished, walls without warmth, rooms that hold the shape of something that never quite became a life. And all the air inside me keeps disappearing, slowly, quietly, just as you did.

And still I am here, sitting in a dark waiting room, watching the clock move without me.

Counting.

Perhaps someday, when I finally have to leave, our hands will brush by accident. Perhaps our fingers will find each other in the smallest, most desperate moment, and for a second we will forget that we were ever apart.

Perhaps.

That is where I live, somewhere between apathy and desperation, between a life overflowing with things that feel empty and a silence that seems to have learned my name.

So many shirts ironed. So many shirts folded by color. So much care given to things that will remain.

For a body that is slowly becoming wind, dust, something ancient and weightless, like the remains of a mummy scattered into the air.

And perhaps that is what becomes of us in the end.

Not gone.

Just dispersed.

Le Hermit

[galacticjonah]

Fix your hearts or die.

You know how many of us joke that Pride month should be followed by Wrath? Well, this year I feel a deep, burning fury towards all who use transgender lives as political propaganda, bargaining chip or something to be debated and decided on without any of us in the room.

We are human beings. You cannot erase us.

Happy Pride. Trans liberation at any cost.