Drowning in the smell of transcendence,
I saw too many people,
from the days I don’t like,
the days I try to keep in the basement.
Between clutching toilets and empty talks,
I met everyone a second time,
and now I’m locked in a car alone.
I couldn’t breathe and was losing a war with my mind.
Trapped in this prison, listening to people’s voices.
It was a beauty of a sound,
like an orchestra from a muse,
with the crying face from abuse.
With my tears still hanging on the window,
you whispered soft sparks of fire through my ears,
when you asked me,
where were my tears,
and what were my fears.
The kind only a candle can hear.
The night we were ballroom dancing with blindfolds on,
every light was off and the curtains drawn.
Swaying into the dark, like an avenue of trees.
Your eyes were born in that tiny moment,
where you want to believe.
Your heart was born,
in a change of season,
where you gave me no reason,
but to leave.
You gave me the keys to your heart,
then changed the locks.
Our love was like a delicate dandelion,
and you blew away the seeds,
so they flew with their tiny parachutes,
into the wind of the past,
and to cling to a stranger’s boots,
so you could walk away from the start,
and peer at me through your window.
After your heavy breaths,
you told me,
you’d rather be part of my story,
than a work of art, in my worry.
Then I woke up at the Main Street Park.
Now up on my knees,
I glanced at one of the trees.
The words “I loved her”
carved into the wood.
