by ty

ataraxia | smudged ink.

they all say:

don’t take what you don’t need.

feet on the pavement,

ice cream in one hand, a balloon in the other –

his mind’s too preoccupied with

longing for baseless freedom and perhaps

he neglects the melting semi-liquid

losing its vibrancy.

some nights he tries to erase

the parallel lines drawn between

reality and reveries,

piecing lifeless syllables together

to paint a picture of her blurred finesse

which he barely recalls.

he’s inhaling the thin sheet of fog

surrounding his sepia recollections

of a short span of time-

without being certain of the identity of

the defined silhouette hiding beneath

layers of ataraxia.

the harsh fumes trace crimson paths

against bare skin as he chokes,

questioning if she was poison,

or a monstrosity from within.

once a daydream,

her : venom in his veins.