Written by Trini Rogando – Instagram: @trini.writes


we are waking at dusk to
                   be filled with the

cheshire light of stars. we are 
                   pretending we can see the sun

until morning, waiting and waiting,
                   waxing and waxing—

none of us can really grasp a difference,
                   but still we squint. truly, 

we are never honest. the only
                   candid person we know lives

in the future—and we are empty and yearning
                   for her always—but really 

she has been dead for years. we are 
                   scrambling through the dirt,

ground like rodents, and we are scrabbling
                   for blooms of breath in the phosphorus.

time is like this: a garden of gravesoil, shrouded by
                   ghosts whose tongues are dipped in sunlit gold.

we are trying to ignore our throats burning with
                   wrong words unsaid, our wrong lives living in the

wrong time; we keep rising and rising to 
                   meet this feigning dawn

that has never really chosen us back.

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