everything. most things. nothing.

the way these walls close in feels familiar anyway:
the breathlessness, the drowning feeling,

you have walked these rooms,
and even the walls know the truth.

in your body you were teetered to doorways,
couches,
the choice between whether to hold a hand or let it fall.

as a ghost you can move through the walls that watched us chase each other downward, the air thickening as we moved ever closer to combustion.

we landed here, where everything is lost or broken.
we landed here, where your voice is nothing but a figment
whispering in the dark spaces between sleep and waking.

it’s never you, when the light floods the room.
it’s never you.

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About tehlorkay

writer of poems and longer things. restless wanderer of small-town streets. unabashed seeker of the true world.
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