1. He is ethereal (his hair is feathery and his hips soft)

2. He often contemplates his surroundings, confused as to what point his generous nature dissolves into nothingness; where his happiness fades into dust, getting pushed into the corner; where his importance disintegrates in the hands of some, and remains whole in the palms of others.

3. The concept of mortality dampens his skin like a humid day, makes his brain tick overtime until his thoughts are fatigued.

4. He is the heavy tide washing away the sand on the edge of the shore from yesterday and the light waves that roll in to balance.

5. He is the sun that singes skin red and fiery and the rain that hits the concrete faster than you can wish for the sun to burn you again.

6. He is the love you wish to wrap around you whole, bundle up in his warmth and stay there indefinitely. I wish for that nightly.

A kiss is more than just my lips on yours and my eyes are for more than just seeing. I understand every whisper your body tells me, every movement your tongue makes, every breath you take I feel it, I feel you.

I'm still learning the language of your skin, but when I hold your hand, I hope you know what I mean.

I'm in a constant state of longing as my arms stretch to grasp dreams out of reach. Instead I reach for you and I'm whole. My thoughts are filled with you as I crave familiarities, I crave your comfort; you are my home.

Forever feels like an eternity until I realise i want every moment with you to last a lifetime, and when there isn't enough time left it drains me of my will to survive because your a rarity that I crave, pollution leaves your effect on me severe but I want to breathe you in with every last dying breath I have and feel it, I want to feel you like nonsense is not a word, as if distractions do not exist because with you they do not, my heart, my life, my soul belongs with you. I give it to you and my eyelids do not blink, you're hands do not shake and together we are still. Longing each other, still.

he spoke in whirlwinds and I was constantly caught in the eye of the vortex.

deprived of oxygen, suffocating, his words coated in layers of carcinogens he drowned my lungs in hoping to save my sorry soul, when all they did was blacken my heart and make it harder to breathe.

killers can easily be disguised as saviours, but if you try to open your eyes you'll only want to shut them.

his silence was the calm to the storm, and all i wanted was for him to speak again.

I think (if it exists) heaven is a place where we spend every evening in a steaming bath, your delicate head resting upon my collar bones coated in a dirty white skin the colour of tainted clouds, the soles of your feet resting upon mine, talking a language of realism and horror, your body sinking into my own like melting clay. A place where we spend every sunny morning dusting off the excess kisses from the night before only to replace them with new ones, rosy cheeks the perfect canvas. Dainty lips work too. A place where evenings and mornings aren't just evenings and mornings. It is a cycle that never becomes boring, never goes dull, and the rhythmic tick isn't repetitive because we know it's not counting down. A place where the pattering of raindrops wish you to a peaceful sleep, only to be greeted with yet another sunny morning. I would die today if i knew that is where i would go.

Here I am. I'm here and I'm waiting I'm here I'm waiting, fuck I'm here and I'm waiting and I'm desperate, I'm here and I'm human, fuck I'm human, fuck, why do I have to be human? So forgive me of my sins if they deterred you of delivering my life saver, or maybe it was the scruffy state of my front lawn. I can fix that, I'm here and I can fix that, I'm human and I can fix that, fuck I sinned but I can fix that.

Please.

I'm pouring my desperation into words into this paper hoping it will somehow reach you.

I'm pouring desperation down my throat, liquid courage needed to keep pouring my desperation into words into this paper but the hope I have that this will reach you is self manufactured.

I promise.

I bathed in my nightmares as they warmed me through sleep, but when yours hugged me at the depth of night, the heat was sweltering and your worries were smothering.

You clutch to me as I clutch to a darkness now filled with an aroma lacking bliss and too pungent in angst.

I splutter, overdosing on the poison named 'your thoughts', drowning in your sorrows so you could stay afloat, I mourned your sadness as a distraction from my own.

Your head was a burden resting peacefully upon my un-peaceful, restless body.

The night and myself never made friends.

Dear God,

This is our first time conversing, but I'll skip the small talk.

Everyone around me is dying, God.

The back page of the newspaper is a paper cemetery I visit once a week and leave flowers on people's grave stones with the ink from my favourite pen.

Why are they dying, God?

Is massed death part of some divine plan sworn to the secrecy conversations leading in the subject of your existence are sworn to?

I want to believe your acting as a father but today that girl lost her father, and today that father stood sobbing over a wooden coffin lined with satin and unanswered prayers, so God, where were you?

Maybe this is one more step leading to the finale in your master plan but please, can you offer us some reprieve?

From the stench of panic ruining our clothes, from the stench of panic ruining us, from the stench of panic.

Dear God,

love thy self doesn't register where I'm from so I'm speaking to you, God. I've found a murderer within myself, God, storms in my head, gun powder in my lungs, God, I need help, God, I need someone, God!

Atheism used to feel like the comforter I'd snuggle into after a long time far from home, but now atheism is that long time far from home and I miss my family, God.

Everyone's dead, God.

My hometown no longer riddled with gossip of the latest death, swarming with the bees of grief, air littered with the pollen made from rotten tears, so please answer one final thing.

God, if everyone's abandoned your divine plan, may I abandon you?

Morning fog resting upon the lake.

The sun glazed a dull pink hiding behind the horizon, lifeless almost. Ironic, almost.

It's arrival into the day of the most importance, and then of none.

Cold water clutching to the final droplets of heat coating its presence from a humid summer night.

Winter isn't as kind.

She never has been.

Yet the two opposing seasons mingle to create a scene of such beauty, colours of the deep ocean and the pastel candy floss painting the sky,

much to the delight of the early birds.