Boy and days.

Tonight I remembered the thoughts you told me about Adara in the sky while Horologium watching your moves to Hydrus and Sun Ra then you asked me where did the last time you reach the cloud nine, but who's counting anyways? I have too many things to tell you at once, more than I can count on one or two or six thousand hands. Even still, your sun is stupid and emit the rays in your hair keep saying the words that they haven't made up for you yet and tomorrow I will sit alone and think of all the wednesdays we ran away from my mother to sit on the rocks and talk about how dumb Andrew Ure could be for his four experiments conducted on Matthew Clydesdale and thursday you came to me and we would probably have been going to spar about our different tastes in music for hours but hell, classic rock and indie have something in common at least, and on friday we are in the downtown library, I sat there in Bücher-collections while you still reading the same book by Robin Craig Clark, ah-ah no, you start talking gibberish again now; how Voyager falls into the teachings of Eckhart Tolle, I never really understand you but it always fun to see the things in you, you never really understand you but some people might wrote about your tongue writing love letters on theirs and some more wrote about your eyes making them want to drive drunk and somehow it all ended with a stanza and they are just dying to see how this one ends but you never really understand you and saturday you told me blue is no longer your favorite colour, and I've been seen you wearing a lot of black lately, killing the little girls in your sleep one by one, with your hands and eyes like cigarettes, blood filling cheeks, tugging and pulling. I asked you what happened and you took a long breath to answer, it's just a new style, you said. 

They say artists are schmucks who plays with dreams but all I see in you is the SS Andrea Doria, a ship deemed unsinkable, but when the liner collided with Swedish Stockholm, it defied all logic and darling I would let you kiss me with your shipwreck on the duvet/in the bath/these islands but you are hallow like the bookcase you fell in love with, the one with the matching armoire. But for once, just pour your heart out, tell me everything about the dreams that has been died, tell me the walls of your childhood home used to hold their breath when you got upset. I would pretend I didn't notice the holes in the closet door and you would pretend they didn't mirror the holes in your chest but I know how much you miss the place you rather be now. 

Sundays, you will be visiting the other of yourself in the first time in months, and you will be half sober, and you will be sad, and history will be repeating itself and weeks will go by and you will remember that you were free and strong and beautiful but now you created something that nobody could touch, not even you, so when you think of yourself in metaphors, I think of you as an asshole but you'll still never admit it, but for a second there you loved yourself back and you will still enjoy a shitty movies on tuesdays, and on the rocks on wednesdays and thursdays you will play piano like thunder and guitar like lightening but my god I don't mind listening to your storm clouds and on fridays, empty souls will miss their old selves like Hiroshima playgrounds miss the laughter of young children while others will miss their other ones like an 11:30 flight at 11:31. Still, you'll look in your coffee eyes you are drowning in an ocean and you can't line everything up as perfectly as you did on the bathroom counter before you went out today and I'll be there for telling you that not all boys are from Mars and perhaps I'd punch you for maybe 6 or 7 times because I hate how you care so much about the future and never give yourself a break and I'm so mad you didn't yell a little louder about how much everything sores because your mind is violin that sitting like porcelain in a satin palace, singing a somber tone to it's audience of no one. A smile with the though, so whenever you have reached the limit go slide out of the city wear your favorite pajama. Leave anything, leave anyone who told you being not okay is a common problems in adolescents. Don't cut your hair short when anyone told you so, don't push yourself too hard to get straight A's, don't hold your tears just because they said that boys don't cry. Don't, because you aren't living to please others. But when you feeling nothing at all, and it seems to be too much, remember your 16 year old self felt this too, but you always told him that sixteen will not last forever. And from now on, every mondays you should go with the loved ones and tell them about Rosetta Spacecraft which carries Philae after chasing comet 67P for over ten years yet you still wondering how could they do that one and every tuesdays sit in your balcony, 4 a.m. in the down with your 8th cup of deep brown while calling your friend through the phone and every wednesdays go to the library and pick some books about flowers and gardening and every thursdays buy some new hoodies online and ask your grandmother which colour that suits you, every fridays buy a new CD's try Dave Dudley's thing for once I don't care if you are not into '57 country music anyways so you can nag as long as you like it but for every saturdays and sundays you should tell anyone that how's your days going, tell them you are doing great or wasn't at all, show them the monsters within and how many Cymbalta pills you swallowed in the weekend, tell them that you're failed and go to them sobbing even though that all that crying sucks it's worse than stubbing your toe, tell them that you were walking on the suburban of the neighborhood you curses to yourself so loud but now you are already so tired then you just got to ask them to take you back to the place you rather be now, but make sure they will be saying; 

home? 

(rinzsu)