Writers Jam

you, me and everyone we know we are the aftermath of rain trying to remember what falling felt like we exist in the in-between that soft glitch before the heart decides whether to beat or break you are the pause between my thought and its translation a human typo in my otherwise quiet existence and everyone we know they are echoes dressed as people rehearsing each other’s griefs like hand-me-down sweaters sometimes i think we are all just borrowed temperatures you, slightly warmer than the world me, slightly colder than time and in the middle, a trembling that neither of us can name. our names don’t live on lips anymore they hum beneath electricity poles they blink in elevator buttons they sigh through the space between two notifications we are made of small absences the kind that no one notices until they start to ache everyone we know is an unfinished version of the same heartbeat some sync, some delay, some refuse rhythm entirely and you you are the ache that learned to walk upright the silence that refuses punctuation if i close my eyes long enough the universe feels like a mouth trying to say our names but coughing instead maybe that’s what we are a cosmic stutter, an almost a repetition that never reaches the same note twice you, me, and everyone we know we are not people anymore we are experiments of feeling ghosts of sentences that time forgot to finish we breathe just enough to remind the world that it once loved something it could never understand.