Tag: spilt ink

by your side
i dream of other skies
other times 
even other cities

in two-car gridlock
bittersweet stalemate
no moves to make but 
everything at stake

i dream of breaking the 
glass and bleeding
and healing.

gridlock // a.s.m

i yearn for her now, 
amid car horns and
coffee-stained sidewalks.
under bare, lifeless sky, 
i long for her shade.
these streets are swarmed, but
there is no life until
 
the wind blows and i am 
reminded she is here, among the
hard highways of Houston; 
she is waiting for me
to find her.

life after lights // a.s.m

please don’t love me. 
nobody knows better 
than i, 
it will be a waste of time. 
i’d love your eyes more than
any eyes in my life, 
i’d lose myself in them 
for weeks at a time and
wake up hungover in
strange places.

well eyes // a.s.m

i never wanted
to need you, 
but i closed my eyes and
unclenched my heart 
and now, when you’re gone,
sometimes
i’m lost. 

you have become a refuge. 
you lead me 
with open palms and 
bare soles
to the patch of 
sun on the asphalt
while the earth crumbles
around me. you sit cross-legged
and teach me how to smile again 
when the muscles in my face
forget.
 
you kiss me, with lips
like warm blankets, and
i am secure
amidst the chaos. 

you engulf me like 
the sea, and
i am drowning in
your serenity.

i never thought drowning could be so peaceful // a.s.m

when i hide the world
underneath closed lids, 
i dream of you. 

the voices in my mind sing
nothing but your music, and
my heart is sore from constantly
reaching for you. 

every step i take is in hopes that
soon i will walk on
your soil. until then, 
my hands must learn to be 
content only
to write about you.

Yerevan // a.s.m

how selfish am I
to live this life, 
to see through these eyes, 
to want to die? 

how selfish am I
to laugh with ease
to seek joy when
there is suffering? 

how selfish am I
to strive to calm 
the storm inside? 
is it selfish
to survive?

survivor’s guilt // a.s.m

the Turkish coffee cup
shards on the floor 
draw blood. 

that delicate porcelain 
holds eighty-two years of life,
wrinkled hands, cardamom
coffee-stained
smiles and desert air;
a shattered mirage on
hard, cold kitchen
tile.

a thousand fangs,
they draw blood and make
home in the soles
of my feet.

cardamom coffee // a.s.m