and you no longer see the romance in that.
by Jaric Sarmiento
Life snaps like firework and you no longer see the romance in that. The earth is a pale blue dot and you no longer see the romance in that. All the days are boulders and the people—sisyphus and you no longer see the romance in that. You are surrounded by people who would take a bullet for you but wouldn’t like to have coffee with you and you no longer see the romance in that. You are fighting your own thoughts on a daily basis and you no longer see the romance in that. Yesterday you were clinically drinking whiskey with your phone turned off and you were humming the tune of a song that once mattered to you and a lunar halo is caused by moonlight refracted through ice particles in the earth’s atmosphere and you’re at the edge of a cliff and you thought you were really going to go through with it this time but you remembered your sister’s birthday is coming up soon and the two of you have a tradition of spending her birthday repainting her room and she doesn’t trim the fingernail on her left pinky and she’s never told you why and the steps to your apartment are covered with dry maple leaves and you no longer see the romance in that. You no longer see the romance in anything and you no longer see the romance in that. You brush your teeth and you’re gaining weight and you pray to a dead god and you move your queen to e7 and you use warm milk when making mashed potatoes and you pop medically prescribed pills and all things are conscious and your dreams feature possible girls from alternate universes and all things are mathematical equations and you listen to bad pop songs to quell broken hearts and you ponder the eudaimonia of moths and her name is Rose and you run on treadmills and you’re walking on a tightrope suspended in outer space and you wipe scum off the edges of strangers’ dinner plates and you stare at flashing pixels and you take her hand in yours and you dance to the waltz that played during your mothers’ wedding and you think about that during her funeral and a baby koala is roughly the size of a jelly bean and sunsets occur every day and sunrise every night and his name is Julien and your pupils dilate at the memory of your third grade crush drawing rainbows on the corner of your notebook and there’s an infinite amount of songs yet to be written and your dream house has a pastel green door and tomorrow is winter and
Jaric Sarmiento is an immigrant from the Philippines currently residing in Southern California. Jaric mainly focuses on writing experimental explorations of depression, the absurd, and LGBTQ issues. He also likes card games.
