What is this? How is it that I’m here?

It’s unreasonably dark, and I’m asking myself questions to which no one knows the answer.

Why does the sky remind me of tears, and why am I crying right now? How deep is the color black? Does it coat your soul? How does that star look exactly like his smile and those galaxies in her eyes?6a00d834caf80769e200e5521c684f8834-800wi

Am I in the universe, or am I around it? Is it in me?

Why does the air sink in my chest this way? How come it’s so cold? Does the music play in her head like this, too?

Can you hear it? tumblr_nyqssanbcl1u9wixvo1_500

Are you listening?

Does the rhythm guide you as well? Is it taking you to tonight?

Are you falling asleep?



Something I Never Said

In response to today’s one-word prompt: silence

I watch her carry on with her life through a phone screen. Late at night, I follow her username through Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook if I’m missing her charm especially. Other people call her my nickname. Other people give her my smile.

Other people say what I never did. I sat with my mouth deprived of language, yearning for a word to make her beam in that wild, red way she had.

I told her parts of stories in hopes that one day when I was gone, she’d still wait for the ending. I called myself Scheherazade, and I called her divine. Every letter I wrote to her was a quiet question-a hopeful silence.


Scheherazade and Shahryar

I wrote in big loops. Cursive trickled across lines upon lines of paper. I drew hearts by her mesmeric name. Everyone I met knew she was wonderful because I’d said so many times.

At night when it’s noiseless, I lie restless and crammed with more fiction than the stagnant air can hold. Sometimes, I wonder if I was inviting her into me simply to create a character for our stories. She was full of everything I’ve ever imagined to be awe-inspiring, and I wondered before I wake up, would I still call myself Scheherazade? The Arabian Nights will have ended with the turn of the sunset and new page of dawn.

I know the end. She leaves with my head, my mouth bleeding ink, and my nicknames and laughter.

With a passion for moving on, I’ll leave her memory in the stories I tell in the future. She’s still my inspiration. Her crystalline blue eyes are above my head, and her taste in music lingers in my search history. However, her shy smile is left in the romance of our kiss. The night I brought roses to her backdoor, she took me to her garden. We went to an abandoned house and confessed secrets we’d wanted to cast away.

I forget the parts of her I wanted to remember, but am stuck with the memory of the story she told me when she left.

I remember every story I began to tell her only to forget the ending. She got tired of waiting, and I ran out of excuses. Creativity failed me. I couldn’t keep up the facade.

I know tonight I will dream of her goodbye, and in the morning, I can finally tally off 1,000 nights.