The difference between falling and flying is the landing.

I would have flown,
beautiful,
graceful,
majestic.
The landing would have simply been a case of self-sabotage.

In every thunderstorm, there is a million suicides,
each raindrop an explosion of life--
no, death to create new life.

The circle of life,
that vicious cycle of perfected balance.

Let me be a raindrop.

Nothing
but the hollowed out infinity where my life once nestled amongst the luminous dunes of the Sands of Time and the nauseating hopes of Forever.

And I,
a hideous, putrid, rotting thing, attached to that nothing like a leech, summoning my own power from pain, taking, taking, but giving little to those who once offered their strength but now deny me.

Yet I give.

Nothing
but my withered soul, desperate in my cracked snow globe of a reality where the ashes of love flitter to the ground, so dazzling, so pure, so deceiving until they kiss the scarred earth.

And I
give my heart to them so secretly that they do not notice, do not appreciate my token through their suffering, until all that I am shrivels, wrinkled and useless, and nothing remains but a shallow whimper, the ghost of a sob.

And those cries fall upon deaf, cauliflowered ears, solid lumps with no purpose awaiting the soundwave that will finally shatter their silence.

Still I give.

Don't worry about who owns the sky;
the birds will still be there tomorrow.
Not everyone was meant to fly,
though God made us all a little hollow.

Don't trouble yourself by asking why;
the truth is far too hard to swallow.
When we're living just to die,
our happiness is something borrowed.

The sun is bleeding over the horizon,
and the clouds are soaking in its pain.
It ain't easy taking all these lies in,
but I guess that's the price of rain.

The rain will come
to wash it all away.
Until then
it's just another day.

He spoke so slowly.
His words, they came from
the twitch of vocal chords
and slips of tongue.

His lips wove glances
of the truth behind his smile;
she was taught to take chances
every once in a while.

His words left a message on her heart:
"Go ahead, take a shot in the dark.
Don't hold back anything if you miss--
life is better when you take the risk."

Her heart sank gently.
Its beat broke the still
of awkward silences
and dazed surreal.

His lips traced trails
along the river of her tears.
His whispers calmed
all worries and all fears.

His words left a message on her heart:
"Go ahead, take a shot in the dark.
Don't hold back anything if you miss--
life is better when you take the risk."

She cut out his tongue;
he ripped out her heart.
They tied them up together,
and took a shot in the dark.

I was addicted to you;
you were allergic to me.

It was winter;
I remember the sugary frost coating our windows, and the powdered snow piled upon our rusted roof.

I remember how each breath seemed to linger in that closeknit cab,
trapped.
We were both too shy,
so we sat together, enjoying the silence of everything we weren't brave enough to say just yet.

I remember the way your lips trembled then parted
an hour too late,
each careful letter tumbling free
with an awkward grace,
before falling perfectly into place.

I remember how your words tasted against my eager tongue,
raw like the ocean air,
but for the life of me I can't remember
if they were a confession
or a warning.