I am Zac Lindsay

The fan is still on, and my blanket is cold
But her beauty unfolds
In spite of the winter

Quite an odd flower that kisses a ghost
Who remains, still morose
And has spent her

Her young, tired eyes, made bright by a glow
That she didn’t know
Was a star, imploding

The forlorn journey: to venture toward sorrow
And still want to borrow
His lips, eroding

With half a desire
I now shall inquire
As to where you are

How can you be
So close to me
And yet far?

a journal entry as a series of haiku

Oh, the luck I’ve had!
You came onto me last night
Couldn’t do a thing…

Sat down and waited
For the drunkenness to leave
But it stayed ‘till dawn

You would take my hand
And put it where you wanted
And where I wanted

The only thing is
He waited in the next room
For the “talk” to end

Oh, the things you did!
With my two arms around you
Until he walked in

So I left.

Nice meeting you  ;]

This morning was just appealing enough.
I woke up with half a dream in my hand.
As you may be able to guess, it wasn’t the important half.
I checked my messages to make sure that what I’d experienced wasn’t part of that half.
The socks on my wall saw everything.
What a pleasant surprise, to find it intrinsic.
The words that once lingered on her lips:
Red like a flame of infatuation and symmetry.
A flame so intense it was asphyxiating.
So I opened my eyes again.
Because the flame wasn’t real.
It was just another metaphor.

It was 6 o’clock when I sat down to write.
No one accompanied me except for my notebook and that precocious darkness that you find on a cold November afternoon.
I was alone, but I wasn’t lonely.
I was too busy trying to find some meaning in the humble clouds that meandered through the skies overhead.
There was that, and the almost inescapable feeling of helplessness I had derived from my blank page.
All I ever had was a blank page.
I thought of Joel Barish for a moment before returning to said page.
After hastily scribbling some vacant words, I got up and began walking again.
This was how my daily excursions had played out for weeks now.
I’d walk out the front door with an empty page and return with a few worthless words.
There were only two things in my life that granted me such a morose disposition.
Just writer’s block and a girl.
Since you aren’t me, you’d probably think there was nothing wrong with her.
But since I was me, there were a few problems.
First and foremost was her inability to leave me alone.
Second and third were as follows:
First was all it took.