The Pusher



You are gone yet by my side. You rise and rise, and even though by morning you’ll be just another skewed memory, I let you kiss me all the same. In the doorway of some abandoned clothes store, I see you smiling while tapping your feet in quick succession to stop you from getting carried away. Not that I want to deny what makes you feel alive, but there’s a time and place for everything. You chatter and dance ahead of me, only you’re not always there, and neither is the scent of your neck that keeps me moving forwards despite not knowing where I’m going. It keeps dropping in and out. It caresses and stirs only to vanish when I need it most. You have been beneath me so many times, and you have seen what lies behind these blue eyes. Not even I have had the pleasure of that. You have collected me, swallowed me. Held me. Where are those versions of us now? What became of those lovers who once dreamt only of each other? I’m at a stage in my life when the truth is in the palm of my hand like never before, and yet the more I write, the less I know what the truth actually means. It’s not always what you can see, and it’s not always what you can feel. Sometimes, the truth is the exact opposite of what it claims to be. How fucked up is that, right? I put these words down onto paper stating the intentions of my heart, and how you are the one I secretly dream of when I’m not hell-bent on searching for a way out of this place. But would you ever believe me after all that I’ve done? Would you give yourself to me again knowing full well how I drift out of existence without a care for anyone else? These addictions. These moods. They take me places. They hustle for my affection when you’re not around, and even when you’re around, they’re too powerful to resist, and I keep pushing you out.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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