inky-handed phen

i believe in the magickal

the beauty in the infinitesimal

the alarming, disarming,
charming
nature of all things,
the devouring greatness
written in every tiny story,
held in every person’s hands.

and i want to live
magick

to count the colors in your eyes
to uncover,
discover,
to float and fall,
all at once, forever

to endeavor.

i want to know the secrets.

to be magick.

<3C

your sadness hovers
in the dark between our secrets
and our confessions

we confessed our secrets
but the confessions
were secret so
the confessions never
happened
and now the secrets
don’t exist.

But I’m looking into the darkness
of all of this non-existence
and still, I see
a glimmer of light.

because if the secrets aren’t real
the darkness isn’t there
and there wouldn’t be a light
to find at all.

but here it is.

here we are.

under the covers.


<3C

i wrote & posted this awhile ago, but i soon after deleted it. here it is again, to stay.

It is comically cold in this room, where disappointment is hanging like thick springtime fog. Like it would be too much for this room to be warm. Too much of a joke.

I’m trying hard, as hard as I can, not to be fraught with the insane amount of paranoia that is bubbling away in my fingertips but it cannot be helped because you are now too much of a real thing. A real person, a real man, a real threat to my fragile, fearful heart. Your voice has morphed from muted electronic words to a range filled with volume, with substance, something I can remember. Something I can recognize only by listening.

I’ve been actively trying, actively fighting, against my better judgment to not assume that you are vacuous and hurtful, and that I will come out of this heartbroken.

It’s hard but I’m trying. I’m trying to contain the disappointment that is hanging in this cold, cold room. I’m trying to find it all and tuck it away into corners where I cannot find it.

But my heart is beating so fast, so fast.

and my bones are aching where i hoped you’d touch me.