matthew burgos
@itsmatthewburgos.bsky.social
I write flash fiction in people's posts.
also a magazine journalist / news editor.
pitches on technology, design, art, architecture:
www.matthewburgos.com
also a magazine journalist / news editor.
pitches on technology, design, art, architecture:
www.matthewburgos.com
The face you see, the one wearing a warm smile, belongs to the same body that carries sadness in its eyes; the same one that weeps when it turns away. (2/2)
October 13, 2025 at 8:05 AM
The face you see, the one wearing a warm smile, belongs to the same body that carries sadness in its eyes; the same one that weeps when it turns away. (2/2)
The pain I feel while crying is nothing compared to what comes after: a stab in the heart, alone in the dark, emptiness throughout, a hollowness desperate to be filled with anything, instantly. (1/2)
October 13, 2025 at 8:05 AM
The pain I feel while crying is nothing compared to what comes after: a stab in the heart, alone in the dark, emptiness throughout, a hollowness desperate to be filled with anything, instantly. (1/2)
Quite often, I wish my discipline were stronger than my will because then the slew of harsh words that I had spewed, so acidic they seep into the skin and burn it, would not have returned and happened; and I would not become the very thought I once advocated against.
#writing #thoughts
#writing #thoughts
October 7, 2025 at 4:44 PM
It is so painful to wake up without you, knowing that it had become our habit for you to nudge me and say goodbye before you left. It is the small, growing changes like this that pull us apart, little by little, day after day
September 22, 2025 at 6:00 AM
It is so painful to wake up without you, knowing that it had become our habit for you to nudge me and say goodbye before you left. It is the small, growing changes like this that pull us apart, little by little, day after day
Reposted by matthew burgos
I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.
September 21, 2025 at 5:17 PM
I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.
I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.
September 21, 2025 at 5:17 PM
I look at you and find the secrets in your eyes, thoughts you let slip by but store in your mind, away from my scrutinizing presence, embedded deep in your memory. I'm afraid that apologizing isn't enough anymore to heal your wounds I've caused.
Reposted by matthew burgos
I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.
September 21, 2025 at 5:11 PM
I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.
I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.
September 21, 2025 at 5:11 PM
I slowly see the consequences of my actions, my own demise through the body I love. Your basket is now full of all the objects I've wrongly wrapped, addressed to something and someone else, but given to you. Now, before it spills, you take it out, dumping them along with the memories we've made.
I am scared that the weight of the pain I inflicted on you from repeatedly expressing my unnecessary hate of all the activities you would love for us to do will matter more than the truth in the words we have believed in, knowing that some of them bend and change in the midst of joy and chaos.
September 21, 2025 at 5:04 PM
I am scared that the weight of the pain I inflicted on you from repeatedly expressing my unnecessary hate of all the activities you would love for us to do will matter more than the truth in the words we have believed in, knowing that some of them bend and change in the midst of joy and chaos.
The first sunshine after the rain smells like leaves. I close my eyes for a nap while you drive and welcome the warmth in my face. There's no conversation; just the track playing from the stereo. A moment later, I feel your hand around mine. The day, the ride, the stillness: they all feel light.
April 21, 2025 at 8:48 AM
The first sunshine after the rain smells like leaves. I close my eyes for a nap while you drive and welcome the warmth in my face. There's no conversation; just the track playing from the stereo. A moment later, I feel your hand around mine. The day, the ride, the stillness: they all feel light.
Reposted by matthew burgos
Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.
April 20, 2025 at 4:51 PM
Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.
Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.
April 20, 2025 at 4:51 PM
Alone among these mountains, I think of your hand around mine. I speak: I wish you had the courage to tell me you'd leave so I'd wake up without high hopes that I'd find you sitting, thinking like you usually would. I can't see you now, but at least right here, I've reclaimed the self I lost.
Reposted by matthew burgos
First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.
December 17, 2024 at 6:52 PM
First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.
First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.
December 17, 2024 at 6:52 PM
First, it's the silence. Then, our complacency. We fall into a routine, and living becomes a chore. We live in this town, in a big house with large windows. Yet it's so dark, even when we turn the lights on. We're at dinner now, and when I look at you, I see a distant memory I can vaguely remember.
Reposted by matthew burgos
We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.
December 12, 2024 at 6:06 PM
We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.
We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.
December 12, 2024 at 6:06 PM
We're miles apart, but I still think of you. When I do, it brings me back to the time I wanted to stop time and float in the infinite. You shared your light, and I took half of it until I fed off of it, until you flickered. Now every time I look at the moon, I only see you.
Reposted by matthew burgos
We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.
December 12, 2024 at 5:58 PM
We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.
We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.
December 12, 2024 at 5:58 PM
We grip our own umbrellas instead of holding hands. The soft pattering of the rain is the only sound that passes between us. That's fine. We’ve long known we don't sound familiar anymore. The rain still smells like you, but it's the kind of scent I wish I didn’t know.
"I left my noise at the sea."
November 26, 2024 at 7:21 PM
"I left my noise at the sea."
Reposted by matthew burgos
It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”
November 25, 2024 at 9:12 AM
It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”
It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”
November 25, 2024 at 9:12 AM
It’s past midnight, and we can’t sleep. We sit on the ragged rock outside our rented house and watch the sky. The stars spill around the colored sky, their glint lighting up our evening. For a moment, the tension between us mellows. Then, you say, “We’re smaller than we think we are.”