nights like these

some nights smell like sour dough bread,

beating of melancholic hearts – 

to be sad and in love, 

or happy and out of love,

or somewhere in the middle

is the question penned on

nights like these.

a delusional happy

or happy delusion,

are we not all falling

and rising, alone and


fighting to make it alive

in the fewest pieces,

is this forever and always

or a way to 

be okay?

tell me,

are you okay? 


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