Because goddamn this mess
of which I’ve turned myself into.

I have cigarette butts for fingertips
Have made ashtrays off every road
I’ve taken have left empty liquor bottles
in the shadows of my footsteps.

No bus ride home can pull me
hither to wilting sofabeds
so screw following every bit of
smoketrails I had left at every
coffeeshops I’ve wandered in.

Don’t look for me
I am busy dancing underneath
lamplit streets waiting for
the pink horizon of dawn to
fuck with my head again,
to lull me into some wakeful coma
fueled by caffeine haze of purpose
and kiss my demons awake
come midnight grey.
Don’t break your kneecaps praying
for my return. You can whisper my name
inside hollow stone walls but
expect no reply.

I am far too gone and wooden effigies
can’t warm my restlessness.
You can write up a letter for me
in cream paper stained by
tears and coffeespills then
toss it into the sea where it will
be as lost as my fingerprints.

Every gravel pavement had been
a pillow to my story, every pebble
on the street had learned my name.
Every lampposts had witnessed
my deconstruction as well as
poured silver in the scarlet
traces in my veins.

I will never come
home to anyone’s arms


Published by

cie miraflor

A Filipino at heart and a Thomasian in spirit. A vocalist. A bookworm. A chocoholic. A liar. A dreamer. A coffee addict. A writer of poetry and short stories. A pending Information Technologist. A frustrated programmer. Blinded with love for Batman.

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