I long for you in the way the night
struggles to envelop the Earth daily,
in the ways in which I fear
my words will never be enough
for your crystalline heart.
I want to fall like raindrops
into your hair on Sunday morning,
when it is time for me to go,
and there are clouds in your eyes.
I have prayed for you eternally;
hold me close and I'll wrap you
into me as the daylight fades to dark.
Let us never know another lonesome night,
not until we are old and frail
and content with the life we have lived.

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

remember that time in september
when the moon was spinning
when the moon was shaking off its blues
when you reached up to taste some
and you woke up with the chills
and you said put me under the sun

it was the first time we laughed after many days
it was the last time we exhaled jet-black giggles
picking away at our severe-face syndrome
we were taking form
finally
we were becoming you and i and you said,
that's a heavy thing to be...
when you're coming from nothing.