A small space to portray, express, and repurpose.
Thomas Amburn
living in New York
surgery resident at NYU
writings are prose/poetry
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I miss the days of cerulean, streaks of yellow, rose colored words, and pleasantness the days of being addicted to you, wishing of you, hoping the best of ways for you, wishing you the castles made from rubble and the dreaming of new colors, the poetry I’d write of you, for you unrequited gifts and…
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duskalwaysthese aren’t the dayswalk in tompkins moving eastI can always hear itthese aren’t my waysseamless smilesI stick aroundwho thought I would ready to sufferagain better deeperI surrender myself there’s a pain in the eyesand there’s air here tooarms length in the groundconstant chatterunearthed cursed namesnever mine to giveanother reason to fearbut another to love
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how many times have I been born? red overgrowtha dying sun setting on the pruning of how it washidden in the glowunder aging starsfinding humor in galaxial simmering an unnamed colorliving on the green border I whispered to myself “I could live here” believing here was a place to accept which was a starved hardened…
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What is it in the haze of thingsand hearing nothing,the breath of independence,the separation of that word from freedom.There’s something that speaks in stillnessthat tempers itself like slow raindropsfalling on an umbrella – a mesmerizing tempo,immediate forgetting of what’s in front of me.I look inwardcaught up in the cool rain dusk,a searching hand lost in…
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There’s something in the air, but also in the early fall sunsets, in the dusk breeze, in the waves of nostalgia that come with the transition of seasons, the transition to softness, a more gentle outlook, the putting away of yesterday’s linen, about arriving closer to a place coming into view.
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