You told me
how
you had
the
best
soul
in your grasp
but chose to let it go.
And I
told you
that it’s alright,
yours
is a
good soul
and
it’s
still
growing.
I forgive you.

Meeting you
is a sudden
alteration
of this
familiar,
overused
palette;
a complete shift,
a dreamer's flight
from
all
that
is
home…
Into the welcome
unknown.
Forgive this
night-thinker
for incompetence.
All that you are,
is all that
is new
to me.
The promise
of
the morrow;
daybreak upon
the horizon.
Your gaze is
sunlight,
your presence is
warmth,
but from which
I need not
shy away.
This time,
I ask,
will you stay
with me?

There is something
magical in this moment;
how your voice is
reaching someone
whom you haven’t met yet,
when right now,
they think
the world
of you.
It kills me
inside
to be
separated
from the Sun.
I want
the
bright
places
now too.
Embrace me
with your Daylight.
Keep me in your Dawn.

She is wonderfully unique,
an ensemble
of rhythms;
a hint of jazz
mixed with alternative music,
with just the right amount
of punk rock
and metal.”

The dusk came;
I watched the moon glowing,
and there I have it,
a word to describe the feeling when you’re bluer than blue;
Yellow, darling,
that’s what it felt like, right?
Glowing, but empty.
It’s time to let go of those
who lift you up just to leave you emptier
than when they found you.
Remember how the sun sets to make way for the moon?
Well, this I tell you:
The moon leaves for a brighter day.
The dawn came;
I watched as the sun turned slowly
from red
to bright orange.
It’s the morning,
and
it’s
beautiful.
It’s time to rise and shine darling.
Rise above the horizon
and shine brighter.

To become your own sun,
to realize that you are the world,
and that
the people,
and the places,
and the phrases
and words
and thoughts
and ideas
that revolve
and pass around you
are
to each
their own solar systems.
It was wrong of them to tell us
that no man is an island.
Each one of us is an island,
and it is when you
peek into
The
Looking
Glass
that you realize
that some islands
have beacons
and some have
watchtowers,
yet all of them
are searching
for another light.
To shine in their way;
to lead,
or be lead
home.”

— *Y.O. & D.C.

Do you know
what helps
a writer
write?
Is it the way
that he feels
for you?
That wistful
yearning,
ever
prevalent,
consuming
the entirety
of his days.
Is it in
the distance?
Miles apart
and yet so
undeniably
close.
Is it in
the moments
spent with you?
Infinity
times
Infinity.
Or is it
your
love
that he has,
every waking
moment,
that helps
a writer
write?

To the common passerby
she is a beauty
with
her flowing hair
and flawless skin,
but to the one who knows her
she is fire,
she is rain;
a combination
of fury,
and melancholy
hidden behind
misty eyes
kept in plain sight.
As she takes in
the grey air
that takes her to
another space,
another time,
even her shattered dreams
come to life once more.
If only temporarily.

I will tear the skies
and rip Eterion asunder,
and still you will whisper sweetly,
"It is not enough."

I will set the oceans aflame
and close the gates to Elysium,
and as you tread among
the ruins and the ashes
You shake your head
ever
so
slightly.

"It is still not enough."

~*D.C.

"Meeting you
is a life event
that shifted
all
world tendencies
toward you.
There is darkness,
and there is light,
and yet
both
converge
in your direction.
Your love
could unravel
all my broken
pieces,
or mend them
back together,
and no matter
the aftermath,
I will stay.
As long as
your love
is with me.
As long as
your love
is with me."

If I were to describe how moving on feels,
I’d liken it to a rehabilitation center
that broke me down
until I wasn’t even sure what to believe in anymore.
It made me doubt my passion,
and turned it against me,
until all that’s left was deep seated bitterness,
and the feeling of utter betrayal.
After a while, I thought I was cured.
But then, the withdrawal kicked in,
and I found myself consumed
by an intense longing.
I can’t recall how many times
I’ve been told to go back,
but each visit was always as miserable as the last.
And now I don’t feel like going back anymore,
since the medication doesn’t work at all.

There’s something about
ebony hues,
and how I’m terribly fond of them;
be it on cats, or hats, or shoes,
the sweater my mom gave to me,
the guitar she brought home
from one of her trips,
my bag that’s torn in some places,
or the hoodie I keep as a memento.
Like the color of your hair,
or the color of your shoes,
dark as a lightless night
but still clear as day.

And I know
you’re afraid of the dark
but I hope that the dark isn’t so scary
when we’re facing it together.

I hate you
and there are a dozen things
I want to tell you
right now
but I just want you to know
that I
will never forget you.
These past few days
just seemed so unreal,
but I’m glad that they happened.
Oh, and I think you’re real cool.

Do you know
what it means
to lose heart
when you
have
so
much
of it?
You’re loving
faster than
you’re losing
love,
and
some nights
even breathing
becomes unbearable.

You are
a work of art;
there is music
in your footsteps,
and melodies
in your voice.
This once
insipid world
is now
full
of colors.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you paint
the skies cerulean,
the curtains green,
the windows red?
In my sorrow
you put a finger
to these lips
as if to say
‘Let us not talk
about sad things’,
then you and I
would speak
about
the goodness
in everything.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you teach
these lips
to express
the miracles
of life,
laughter,
and love?
You had a
gentleness
about those
around you
like you knew
everyone
was fighting
their own battles,
everyone was worth it.
Compassion should
be given where it
is needed.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you show
me when to
give somebody
a shoulder to cry on,
a hand to hold,
a kiss g'night?
Darling,
how I miss you so.
Everything has changed
-even you and I-
but perhaps
you are
all of the
loveliness
that I have written
-and will ever write about-
from the very beginning.
And I
just
couldn’t
grasp you
clearly.
How I
hear,
see,
think,
and feel
are all
different now.
Did you lend
a hand with that?

~*D.C.