Not Okay

I am a writer, butterflies wreath my fingertips with garlands of words because words, words are all I live for plucking vowels even in a black hole, the breathlessness I felt when a word swiftly poped up the screen because that day my hair were tickled without much a mess and I need not chase the horizon; my lover stood their for me to exploit its wires that embrace so many meanings; Aah; but this day the prompt grazed plain without kissing my lips, this day I took sand as sand and not suffcating moments caged in a wrist, this day I could not dug deep because this day I am not okay,
the untitled reasons are demons taller than my god, my pen refuses to scour ink on the naked paper, I feel the winds harder, breaths lighter, darkness deeper, light fainter, from paper boats to torn pieces spilled on the floor, from seconds to hours lost in the white walls, from sun to moon surrendering for the clouds, I am losing something, little by little, I am weeping the pain, the swimmer’s efforts are all in vain until the tide recedes for the sky to be perfect and okay.

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