Where is the center of the sea?
Why do waves never go there?

Is it true that sadness is thick
and melancholy thin?

Are you a bird or a fish
in those nets of moonlight?

Are you the reason?
That a man might question?

And, like a train,

-you lost the motif of time.


Why don't they train helicopters
to **** honey from sunlight?

Where did the full moon leave
its sack of flour tonight?

Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do men conceal
the splendor of death,
in their graves?

I know not how-
the smoke of a ******,
talk with those clouds,

But Such desires-
must be watered with dew!

The windows must be open,
To watch buried time.

Isn't the smell of gravity,
made of both iron and peace?

Strokes on the page,
Wrists moving fluidly as it spreads and leaks across the surface.
You try so hard to erase it,
But we're not living in reality.
Your ink is permanent.
You don't have one of those fancy pens.
It doesn't erase like a pencil.
If it did, what would be the significance?

Pen is made to stain.
We've both been imprinted with the blemish from a pen.
Your pen leaks,
Not just on your page.
His too,
Hers,
Theirs,
And mine.

Sure, tear the pages,
Shred them.
Inflict any form of destruction,
But the ink will remain stained on the page.
There will always be existing evidence of you.
Of the way you so flawlessly allow your words to spill from your mouth to the page.
Of the way you inhale tense air and exhale a sense of tranquility.
Of the way your intensely blue eyes explore the progressional evolution of the materialistic world.
It will all be forever written on the page.

I know you didn't want this for yourself,
Nobody in their right mind ever would.
Maybe you didn't ever want me either,
But change in either extreme is inevitable.
I am not leaving,
No matter how hard you push me away.
I will stay to read every single word you expose to the page,
Even if it gnaws at my heart to be chewed raw.

You can try and hide your pages,
But I'll just read from your eyes.
I can see your hurt.
I can feel your hurt.
It makes me hurt.
It makes me write,
In hopes that my ink will influence the tides from which you view the world.

Please don't stop writing,
I want to keep reading.
Please don't try to erase the disfigurement from your work,
It's my favorite part.
Please find the sublimity in each sentence,
I see it, even if you don't.
Please don't burn the pages,
I think I might burn with them.