Hey Y’all!

There is beauty 

in the silence, in the stillness, in the gone-ness.

In the dripping water casting ripples in puddle—

who is left to see it?

In the soundless streets—

who is left to hear it?

-

There is beauty

in the empty, in the quiet, in the ghosts.

In the burning lights, haloes silver and rose—

who is left to see?

In the winding roads, snow pristine and clear—

who is left?

-

There is beauty 

in the dark, in the soft, in the peace. 

Silence is a commodity rarely found and never sought, 

An extinct creature killed by advancing times. 

There is beauty in its return; 

There is beauty in its resurrection.

-

(who is left to hear?)

-

—beauty in a time of mourning (y.c.)

I don’t love you anymore. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

But

-

There are days I wake up and I think I feel your arms around me 

And my lungs

Ache like I haven’t taken in enough air. 

-

There are days where I turn

with your name on my lips 

And there is nothing there, only empty air,

Dust motes and smoke. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

but

-

It’s been so long since I was alone, 

I’d forgotten the way loneliness tastes like regret 

when you’ve drunk enough of it. 

-

—y.c.

Mother, I think I’m cursed

This air is turning to poison

This heart is falling apart

Mother, I think I’m blind

The path is dark and winding

No light shines on these parts

Mother, I think I’m dying

There’s nothing but numbness here

and a voice whispering, “We’re all mad here”

Mother, I don’t want you to save me

This darkness has begun to feel like home

and it truly has been so long since

I felt at home

— y.c.

Photography by Hilde Engerbråten

I think we’re all broken, 

you whisper to the dark shimmering water lapping against the hull. 

I can see our reflections—

You, halved in white and 

Me, fading to black like an old film reel. 

Broken how? 

I don’t really need you to answer, not really. We’re cursed,

I know and you know, too, so you just laugh. 

Even that sounds like shattering glass. 

What is it about stars and streetlights and silent European nights 

          that tear us open to the core?

Cursed, you whisper, 

And suddenly thousands of years worth of history and ghosts and 

          fiends are clamouring for release beneath 

The liquid obsidian rocking the boat. 

Cursed, I whisper, but remind me:

Aren’t curses simply blessings from below?

.

— Cruise on the Danube (y.c.)

Sometimes forgiveness is swallowing a match, 

          swallowing ten. 

Your veins ignite like gasoline-soaked wood 

(are your doubts the gasoline or your convictions?)

(does it matter?)

.

Sometimes it’s a bit like suffocating,

Water rushing in through your nose and you’re

Drowning 

(are your memories the water or your dreams?)

(does it matter?)

.

—y.c.

We make gods out of sinners and altars

Out of gutters. We bow, 

Heads down in silent reverence,

To fools who beat back the nonbelievers with

violent and wrath and the pious

Call it righteous.

The gutters birth no good saviours; these

streets 

Vanquish purity the way Heracles vanquished

the lion and Perseus vanquished the

serpent but they had gods on their side 

And we have only demons.

—modern sins equate salvation (y.c.)

They’d been lulled into a false sense of security with this gentle, quiet version of him. But gentle didn’t mean safe, and quiet didn’t mean meek. The same terrifying fire burned in him still, an intense mix of unpredictability and unyielding.

— Yushan C.