simple things it’s the quiet, the space of air between us that we both take in it’s the looks, the way your eyes catch mine like some sort of secret, an inside joke it’s the gravity, the external force that draws us together, whether we want it to or not it’s the history, the knowledge that no one else can understand you as much as I do it’s these simple things I miss, staring at my ceiling in the dark, thinking of you, thinking of us, thinking of what we could have been if we cherished these moments a little more
the stars in the sky what’s desired is deprived of and the acquired forgets it has been bestowed by a star’s end; constant sprinting down a road as some inaugural physics law whereas we all could just accept our place what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s envied is what I contend, fixed to a conjecture as yellow is to the love of a friend, admonished for breeding bias; the very archetype of Midas is what we’ve all been taught to chase what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in the stars, I can’t comprehend born for the sky, “lift us, Atlas” skill needs talent; though wisdom transcends even those with an eye for a canvas for A’s have been favored for eras tradition is not simply erased what is first when a sphere is our race? what’s in being top of the class? what’s in taking all of the space? why want more than what one has? what is first when a sphere is our race?
and their shine coated in hologram film, by way of its reflection in my gaze, the stars in our sky are beautiful tonight, alighting the twelfth stroke with a mystical haze wonder strikes me at the beat of our time how can wisdom be but a lie? when the twinkles delight and assurance seems right, only those who know how can fly you may cry and you may complain, yet it is i who is left to look up, rooted by inadequacy, cursed unimaginably, you are confined with the stars so, isn’t the universe enough? harder to rise than it is to maintain harder to disprove than it is to accept when i try, it’s my best in my best, i’m still less compared to whatever i hope to be when i stand below your step surely the stars don’t mean to bewitch surely you’ll see if our souls were to switch
Czarina Datiles is an eighteen-year-old Filipino writer and poet from San Diego, California. A national medalist in the 2023 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, her works have been recognized by The New York Times and published in The Weight Journal. She loves rainy days, fantasy novels, and boba drinks.
