Time Lapse

Ah, from this side, yes, that angle
Your face looks so good these days
Have you changed something?

Your style is nicer than before
Like you feel relieved about something
Hm, you should've done this earlier

Or are you growing out your hair?
Yes, perhaps that's it, the gentle waves
In that free-flying fashion, so reminiscent

Well, anyways, that's how it is
A biased observer says you must be well
Actually, better than was expected.

-A.K.

힐링 (Healing)

But there is yesterday, when he is far away, and I'm sitting in the warm library listening to Andrea Bocelli, and his sweetness to me is like the sweet lemon green tea I'm drinking. The spring sunlight, reflecting across the walls and all of the books in the room, dances about in a game of hide and seek. A game like the one he plays, coming around sometimes to dance across my heart as if it is the golden title of one of those bound books.
Oh, yes, there is yesterday, when I am bent over my desk in the deepness of the late April night, window cracked slightly. The scent of blooming flowers from the garden below drifts in with the soft breeze; and I imagine this is the kind of softness his cheek must feel like. I have unearthed my art, so long forgotten in the push and pull, drag and drain of this world, and steadily I sketch, cut, paste, color, whilst a beloved indie song whispers in the background. I smile, filling with warmth as the future glimmers in the distance, and I think, for that instant, I connect with him in some way.
Yesterday, yesterday, yesterday, when the muggy May morning dawns gray and bleak like the expression I had when I heard that news. I almost cried, and avoided the thought; a day when the smallest flicker of hope was put out by the pouring rain of "it can't be helped". All of the celebratory congratulations seem quite misplaced when I consider this, his fate. 
Yesterday's noisy night, spent in one place, watching the empty black sky, and listening to his slowing breath and slurring words as he gently dozes off, the early to bed, early to rise type. In a startled moment he murmurs foreign words and I wonder what he has said to my voice awakening him. Drunk on the sadness, frustration, confusion, my lips form words, but I cannot remember all that I said. An impulsive venture, a gamble, filled with the type of honesty that is felt only on the windowsill of the cardiac ward at two in the morning. The kind of heartbeat that races and slows with conviction.

And that was yesterday.

Untitled #8

Synth-filled tracks with their deep, thundering beat
A chilly black night and a frozen heart to re-heat

That familiar smell, those pretty words permeate
Vodka burns, possibilities abound, thoughts deviate

Flat lands, winter weather, the frozen city, plains
The light of dawn, strange words, the cross, new names

Too many politics, oh, the rap music, and the swears
But we question: does it all matter when someone cares?

Nights of summer, I returned to them in memory
And to this day, I only see you, there with me

Through all of the gray smoke, your gray shirt
Oh, if our eyes meet, would you pick me first? 

Mixed music every night to help me sleep
Sometimes I'd smile, sometimes I'd weep

Act, sing, laugh, dream, do it all while you still can
In the time warp I warn you, oh, ghost of this man

You're twenty-four years old and you live in paradise
And one day, you'll lose it all when you roll the future's dice.

-Argentia

To The Ghost

This is to you, the ghost.
Yes, I said you, oh ghost. This is to you, who has haunted me with your precious, childlike face; warm and quiet, drifting about in my memory like the sea foam which floats in and out from the shore.
This is to you, and your gentle eyes, blinking, crying, sighing, searching, yearning, loving, laughing, and burning, and so, so, so incredibly alive. This is to you, and your soft mouth, held tight, then trembling slightly, then opening in a cry for that which you so desperately seek to find.
Yes, this is to you, searcher. This is to you, dreamer. This is to you, lost, angry, sad, confused, uncertain child, covered in a blanket for a body, which hides you from the eminent storms around you.
This is to you, who was truly something. This is to your intangible form, kissed by mist, drifting through the darkness, searching for that place again. This is to the perpetual smile plastered on that doll-like face, when basted in rouge and lined in coal black, and the twin beacons of light which reach out across the horizon and grace everything they settle upon with a feeling of wonder.
Yes, this is to the ghost, who alone has lived and grown. The ghost, who, adapting to that loneliness, continues to burrow deeply into his soul, hiding away in fear. To the ghost, who, seeing the light, reaches out, and whose fingertips only meet the chill steel of his self-made prison. The ghost who watches from deep inside, flickering like a dying flame in his dark eyes.
Please don't give up.

I know you have no guidance. You're alone. You're not sure what the future holds.
Ghost, it's all valuable; your idealism, your youth, your starry skies. Don't allow yourself to be packed up in a box and slipped into a dark corner, never to be heard or recognized again. It won't end well.
Don't ever let him forget that you are a part of him.
Don't ever settle for being just a ghost.

-The Hopeful Believer