1. Nicotine Sunrise – A Farewell 
‍
If I were to ash into my hand 
every burning sunrise
as a reminder of things past
these cherries 
would blossom 
nothing more 
than charred skin
mottled and pussing
of a collective wound 
never to heal
‍
burning flesh a symbol 
of chaos 
repetition 
nothing more 
than masochistic 
‍
                          self-reflection
Self-involvement 
                           Self-rejection
Self- infliction
‍
Masochistic self
loving and loathing
in a pendulum swing.
‍
As the seasons pass
like the wilted leaf
the rotted tree
the warped perspective 
gnarled through bloodshot eyes
forgotten
‍
at 4AM coffee
rhythmic lights
white-hot yellow
sterile florescent 
as I drain myself on
the fallen, 
dead trees
finally broken 
by the pressure 
of stagnant time
‍
pop bloated puss 
clear burn
through clutched fingers
screaming
clenched to straightened wheel
back to begin
again
lost in the rhythm
and yet
somewhere out there
the air is fresh

                                                                                                                      2. Reflections in a Bushkill Fire

It’s quiet here, finally.
The morning dread-filled cigarette 
does not inhale in me the normal
driving madness-giving thoughts
as it usually would in the city
‍
              awaiting that 
              moment to end
              the train to begin
              the tether of 
              another day. 
‍
Yet I still project our future tragedies
as if they are already written out here 
somewhere in the stone 
scattered near the powerlines
mounted in copper and paved streets
‍
See this as a question, most importantly
I’m not lost like I was once was
but that isn’t to say I am not lost
all the same, just differently.
‍
In the silence, I hear the expression,
“Two loving hearts beat as one” 
Like a twin swallowed in utero.
‍
Your heart will not allow me even
the space between the beats
to breathe myself
‍and for that (alone)
‍I am in sync with you
‍
I have become not so much 
a reflection of you but
the seam where your feet
meets your shadow
on the asphalt floor
as you turn to
walk facefirst
into the sun. 
‍
I look into snapping fire for answers
as I await my turn in the circle to speak. 
I grow impatient or indifferent
and slowly drift in my rocking chair 
into sleep to find myself 
on the floor, cold and clothed
‍
Once again the grip of time 
holds me in its arms whispering
until summer can break
its gnawing, gagging grip for a moment
and help me breathe another year
into my lungs.
‍
Yet there is a crater of uncertainty
in your heart that speaks to me
in the rustling of wind and silence
in the copper obelisks of powerlines
Extended above me that tethers 
dreaded echoes into the trees.

                                                                           3. Nicotine Sunrise II – Dawn, Healing in Vibrant Pink

It appears
dawn still / has more to say 
a quiet, colorful word as 
a reminder of its embrace
‍
These hands,
now calloused
burns receded 
skin pulled
firm and taut 
raised scars 
still remain
‍
Some days new skin
wears like armor [while others itch / at seams to find] 
the others, a mask,
a phantom [one or perhaps still new]
but new skin all the same.
‍
Some days I yearn for
San Francisco 
of quiet dawns before
the burning heat
the mind snapping 
into starry days
‍
Some nights I dream
without sleeping 
screaming into darkness 
awakened by familiar
kisses of pain.
‍
All of these burns 
are not mine
alone to carry 
and so therefore
I burn with you. 
‍
I burn with you 
in sunless rooms
lit with days 
I do not call mine
yet for years I have
carried their torch.
‍
I burn with you
on a western train 
carelessly seeing you 
in split reflection yet
still I feel comforted.
‍
I burn with you all
Dwindling, scattered
like the long fizzle 
of a July celebration
where smoke clings
to my coat and the
patio table,
‍
I smear my finger
along the edge 
to write my story
with the curling
scent of masochism
for I have ashed into my hand
every burning sunrise 
and layer after layer 
I no longer feel it as the same 
‍
with calloused skin, 
dawn has found me coolly
in subtle pink tones 
of healing. 

‍
Published 13th July, 2024.

William Loring is a writer living in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently working on a collection of poems titled 'The Earth Under Suburbia' which focuses on the underlying thoughts of adolescence, nostalgia, and the evolution into contemporary adulthood while grappling the loss of sense and self. His work can be found in various bar napkins across New York City -- if found, please return.