surface/not poetic

there should be a flow of words distinctively coming at me in this thoughtful moment. i've tried, hard enough, time after time for it to be real and pleasant. at some point when the noise was louder than my will, i gave up. i kind of guess you noticed, but still, it isn't as poetic as i imagined it would turn out to be. it wasn't poetic. it never has been and it never will be. however, i find poetry  in some of the strangest details. when i'm talking i am noticing and i notice that you're listening. i got used to you. but i don't like this out of routine. i like this because it wasn't as cold as the weather report said and the bus didn't take long to come. i like this because i push myself to new places where i can never settle down. i like this because if i push hard enough, i can see the tiny cracks. i'll never get them to pour in. but i'm okay with it.

leaving and breathing

leaving and breathing the same rusty contents. a year ago has nothing to do with me. whoever's new hasn't come to stay for long. otherwise, i would have known. it isn't surprising anymore when the game plays itself in front of my eyes and i just fall asleep before the right cards come in hand. a year ago has nothing to do with me. it's not me. she died beside the hospital bed, in a frenzy for packing her will up; she died, she died.