We fought but that voice over the phone convinced me that you'd be better off. So we fell out of love and years went by as our song faded .

How can a single spirit wrap me in a silk cloth of sentimental affection  and without notice drown me in love and desired passion . How can I ... fall at such mercy for my own emotions and admit to myself that he/she is the one.

And I'll walk past and never say a thing
And hold my structured face strong. As society willed us to.

Today the teacher asked me what art was, and I mentioned him.

For me, he was, is, and will always be art.

His hair, his eyes, his lips, and his cheeks.
His arms, his legs, his neck.

All of him is art.

The way his hair moves through the air,
Or the way complete idiocy makes him smile.

His seriousness and his bearing,
His body when he sweats,
The way he sings softly.

His voice.
His voice is so perfect to me.
Every word that comes out of his mouth
Is like thousands of babies laughing endlessly.

Even in his saddest moments,
He is art.

The way he prefers to cry in a place where no one sees him.
The way his words become deeper, with a darker sense.
The way his dark circles show from sleepless nights.

His arms.
The way his arms hug me constantly.
The way he moves them just to get my attention (and he really does).
The way they wrap around my waist and carry me like a baby.

His lips.
The way his lips brush mine,
Making me want to kiss him.
The way he presses them when he’s upset.
The way he kisses me again and again—
Even then, I never get tired of his kisses.

And his eyes.
His eyes are my favorite part.
Why?
Because they’re bad and good at the same time.
He can lie to me while looking at me with those brown eyes.
He can make me lose control just by looking at me,
But in the same way he makes me lose control,
He controls me.

He can make me cry just by looking at me.
He can make my life spin a thousand times with a glance.
He can make my heart stop.
And just by looking at me...
I fell in love with him.

Do you know what’s wrong?
I never knew him.
And I never will.

But that’s what art is about—
To love the unknown.

And for me,
He was art.
For me,
He was a stranger.

Does he know how much I worry?
Of his hurting and his pain?
Does he realize that it kills me?
Every week he is still away?

Of course not,
I don’t share that stuff.
No, I still seem very alive
Each week I’m still bouncy.

What would happen if he returned?
And I asked the simple question?
Would he sense any of my concern?
And would he put the fear to rest?

I guess I’ll never know
Because I couldn’t do I anyway.
No; worry would fade to nothing,
And I’d be happy for the day

we are like yin and yang
he is an angel and im a devil
he is light, I’m dark
he is white, I’m black
he is good, I’m bad
he is like the sun, I’m like the moon
he is demonstrative and I don’t like showing positive human feeling
he is generous, I’m a *****
he is a match, I’m fire
we complement each other
this is the way that we work
we are perfectly imperfect
but we love that
and we are gonna ride till someone of us will die
king and queen, conquering the world
that’s what we are
but, who said that an angel and a demon can not go hand in hand?

Softly and gently, I swim him along
the frail whirlpool of a lie,
He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold
forward towards but shy

I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet
and tell him how his would fit in,
how every moment of my cold nights would burn
into the arms of his unconscious sin

I canst remember thy face though,
o love, was the dust of snow much.?

Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem
skimming on the foam of an immortal stream,
with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup,
he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream.

A dream.
A DREAM.
O my.! Was this illusory?

Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit
The word exists the definition doesn't,
Dejection over fancies is dejecting
Perfection is straight where you find true love.