Much it wafts into my nose
     The smell strong of your perfume,
      Filling the well-appointed room
       Up with the fragrance of rose.
How well-scented art thou, my dear dame!
And stronger and sweeter still is thy foxy frame.

Everything fashioned He perfect and good:
Every animal, creeping thing, fish and bird.
And over them all in a delirious mood
He created man and made him their lord--
To dress and keep Eden--those to name.
And so it was, whatever he did proclaim.

Albeit man the crown of God's creation
Became the Almighty's lone sorrow:
For his heart with many an evil invention
Was filled, constantly and vehemenly so.

It grieved God thus that He'd formed him--
Who was His likeness--His creation's cream.

The autumn’s dream may keep its dying grace
With flecks and shades of bleeding leaves and  yellow.
The cold wind's scorch may wither the green’s space,
When fruits of green a bit more need to mellow.


And autumn’s tear on every leaf perceives
The cold wind, which scorches green so cruelly,
Till glass fleck shade of bleeding yellow leaves
The living world to meet its ground so coolly.

And autumn’s red may silence the bird’s voice,
When shivers of the tree the rain embrace
And nature's hide, having no other choice.
The winter slowly comes showing her white face.

Toilet paper,
                You are the only one who
                Puts up with all my crap.
                You listen when no one else will
                To all my groaning and moaning.
                You share all my private moments
                And follow me from the bowels of hell
                Into the plumbing of despair.

Toilet paper,
                You have seen my most private parts,
                The dark crevices of my flesh,
                Where no one will go.
                And should I sneeze
                You will wipe my nose.
                You will take away my filth,
                And your softness can embrace
                The sewage of my soul
                And the flakes of flesh
                That my heart has discarded.

Toilet paper,
                You are the only one I know
                Who kisses my ***.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”