I go by the name of Adam.
1989 is my year.
My life is worth living.

+36° 59’ 1.21”, -119° 52’ 22.72”
+41° 33’ 28.27”, -71° 17’ 53.36”




I went into this dark place years ago.
The shadows stick to me.

I’m trying so hard
to search for every bit of you that’s left in my head.
There’s not much left.
When I sleep
I still find myself
wandering ghost versions of old neighborhoods.
La Canada to 11 Gravely.
I used to wake up with sore eyes
that refused to snap back into focus.
I’d lie there an hour
or two
every morning,
stitching the pieces I recovered
back together behind my eyelids.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I don’t even know what to write anymore.
I’m starting to lose the gutwrenching
that made me fill up twenty pages a day.
I get so tired of inking about
the freckled maps on her body
and the static I felt
every time my fingers
used her
to find my way home.
My words are so stale.
If she kissed me now
I promise it wouldn’t taste the same.
Only of Silvers
and other pieces
of other forms

of porcelain that I couldn’t keep.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I always thought it was your ghost that was at unrest.
But maybe it’s mine.

These thoughts of you pair well with Groundislava playing in the background.

The phone rings.
It’s her.
“I was just writing about you.”

And then I wake up.


I let your ghost in last night. I got fed up with the cold drafts she would throw at me through the walls. I couldn’t sleep with the black and white negatives on the back of my eyelids. I thought opening the door would give my soul some peace. It did. Until the fucking sun rose and she faded into the shadows of the window blinds on my ceiling.

(Source: oceanghosts)



I wish I could say
that I was the one to blame,
just so I could keep you
as a perfect dream.
I wish I could say
that you cradled my soul,
that I felt safe,
and that my muse
was looked upon fondly.
But no,
I can’t.
You were just as she was.
Fuck it, who am I kidding?
You were worse.
At least she had the decency
to stop throwing punches.
I saw you
remove her arrows
and snap them before my own eyes,
only to send twice as many back into the scar tissue.
You fucked me good.
Just like you did under those lights
in my own bed
on that rainy February night.

(Source: oceanghosts)

Don’t tell me you miss me and that I can’t seem to get out of your head, and then get engaged a week later. Fuck. You.

You used to smoke your cigarettes
between your
ring fingers.
I always wonder if you still do.
I can picture the smoke
twisting and turning in your hands.
I can smell the cloves and
I can hear the sound
of the embers crackling with every drag.
I always wanted to feel like one of your cigarettes
on those hazy mornings of winter.
A reason to get up in the morning.
Something to compliment your spiced coffee.
Something to put your lips on because you liked the taste.
And maybe that’s exactly what I was to you.
A temporary wake up
that was terrible for your health.

(Source: oceanghosts)

Then I started to miss her.
That’s when I knew I was fucked.

I want to know
when you last spoke my name.

(Source: oceanghosts)

I fucking need to stop reading my old notebooks. 

She sat next to me.
Our arms grazed,
and I swore she could feel
the chill that hit my skin.

(Source: oceanghosts)