I think of you, my dear, a collection of perfection.
Your extracted sweetness churned into a sugary confection.

Honey forged from honest bees is said to taste the best.
I plan to eat the nectar from your consciousness, ingest.

Purity is known as that which is undisturbed,
Non-Contaminated and original...unfiltered.

Since Love is a word that is clearly defined,
I was sure it would be much less than easy to find.
But please decipher it’s meaning be my Rosetta Stone
How to manifest in person to keep me from alone
The one I’ve wanted and needed to fill my vacuous soul,
One whose substance would fill my red but black hole
My collective attention would never escape her.
How can a concept so complex be drawn out on paper?
We’d be perfect and free we’d be perfect as “we”
But love is too broad for such specificity.
I’ve hoisted my thoughts until they were too high to still see
Wondering how love could even be in the dictionary.
Alas I’ll search ‘till transformed, my hairs all turn grey.
The only place I’ll ever find love is in the section after “K”.

I have come to conclusion
My mind has eluded
I am cursed with incurable hiccups

I constantly wait
For that feeling I hate
Random movement too close to my core

I am constantly scared
Given water not air
I am tired of holding my breath

Isn’t it something that two bodies connected by an unwritten creed, were emotionally trapped but physically freed?

As civil individuals the two gained public recognition, became restricted, by each other’s verbal jurisdiction.

They were paradoxical and fragile in more ways than one, like an albino celebrity, a star that stays away from the sun.

Now they say long distance love mandates communication for jubilation, but they had never been used to such distant segregation.

He wanted to be lint-less, and wanted her not to cling, he wanted to be free, to him this was just a fling.

She wanted to be loved and thought he wanted space, but secretly it killed her, thus the emotion on her face.

Now where I come into play, is relative but strange, seated in a class room that was randomly arranged.

Like the flipping of a coin, the result somewhat unknown, by chance we’d ended up somewhere private, and alone.

So, two bodies connected by an unspeakable pact, were emotionally joined by an extremely physical act.

I'll just leave what happened to the readers imagination...

Nevermind, we ******.

The clinking of seashells underneath my shoe's soles reminds me that even skeletons can be beautiful.
The cadence of the seagulls repeating their calls, brings light to the fact that *** rules all.
The ambient noise that puts some of us to sleep, is the sound of the circle of life, the mating calls of beasts.

Do sleepless nights yield heavy thoughts?
Or do the synapses firing prohibit silent slumber?
Neural highways at traffic jam capacity
Rush hour never ends when I retire

Electrical signals consistently skip and zip
Awake or asleep, thinking or dreaming
Mystifying visions of past, present and future
Entertain the brain while the body refreshes

A blissful recollection of pure jubilation
Transitions the mind into sweet meditation

My alarm becomes a synaptic disturbance
The ears at the receiving end of the siren
Alert, alive, living
But exhausted from the Prednisone Curse

Digging through the pile, always looking for a match
Some thing to stop the pain, some kind of fix or patch
She knows not what she needs, but searches nonetheless
She knows not what's her goal, she does not reassess
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

She often finds a fix, or finds some thing to use
No logic when she looks, why search when you can choose
The only parts that fit, only work for a while
The only parts that fit, are at the bottom of the pile
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

The dealerships still open, her heart it still does bleed
When will she stop this search, they'll sell her what she needs
Money's not the issue, for everything is free
Money's not the issue, I'm sure she would agree
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Now she starts to panic, the salvaged parts were cheap
Knows not what to do so she falls over to weep
She realizes now, the junk yard parts all break
She realizes now, she's made a huge mistake
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Thinking clearly now, she knows where she must go
The pains already stopped, her face is all aglow  
She knows what she must do, the junk yard she must leave
She knows what she must do, and what she can achieve
Now she's shopping in the dealership, where everything is free
Now she's shopping in the dealership, the dealership is me.

A lot has changed since we became free
Motives rearranged when you broke up with me

Resisting cardiac arrest restless nights turned into mourning

We ended it

We ended up

Apart

To flip on the switch is to let light take control
Unseen becomes seen, I'll explore her black hole.
The current will flow, the lightbulb a-glow,
Shadows remain behind objects below.

Yet even in darkness, she shines from within
I finger her switch to make her head spin.
Do shadows appear, when the room is pitch black?
She's tasted the darkness, and will never go back.

Light uses power, while darkness does not,
An obvious statement, or just food for thought?
Remove both my eyes, call me amputee,
I'll never need light for me to see.

Because even in darkness her beauty is there
Turn off the light. I'll still ******* stare.

Though I appreciate art, the likes of Romel, and Van Gogh,
Why waste a simple blip of time staring at a photo?
When I can just call out her name, feel her warmth, see her face.
You can't close something that was never opened in the first place.

Hence this album, not displayed, was aged beyond it's looks,
It didn't even ware, we only opened other books.
With no need to reminisce and new moments being made,
We'd always been together, strong connections never fade.

But now I sit here solitary, all alone, a noble gas,
Flipping pages, gazing slowly through a book about our past.
My poetic voice was turned to slur, it left me, effervescence,
Her attitude, the glow she had; demeanor luminescent.

Was it her winning grin and perfect skin that gained all my affection;
Or her innocence, so bold, yet pure that warrented protection?
Could it have been her smile, that smile, that made me want to make her laugh?
Yes, that smile, that smile, my lovely perfect other half.

When I humored her, she humored me, we functioned as a pair,
Everything was perfect, pure commitment always fair.
In all our years, in all that time I'd never gotten more,
Butterflies than when she made that look that I adored.

Unfortunately death was something she could not evade
Unfortunately death is never easily delayed.
Looking down and thinking back to the way that things had been
I can't help but shed a tear and ironically still grin.

Though I appreciate art, the likes of the right ear of Van Gogh
This album, now so precious, is all I have to show.
My life became this incomplete on the day this earth she left.
For Life is platinum in a bank, and death is just the theft.

Swaying ever so slightly in the ever so slight breeze
With no competition and an abundance of leaves,
The limbs stretch out horizontal with ease.
Saggy branches cast shadows ever changing not still,
Surrounding the ground at the base of Greg's mill.
The death of the farmer, an absence of relation
Resulted the rotting of wood and the estates decimation.
From the numberless seasons of decay and neglect
The mill, exhausted from age is still somehow *****.
Thick grass and means weeds form a bush-like combination
That blankets the mill’s base and destroys the foundation.
Dilapidated, homely and a touch out of place
With time, the farm, a memory will be easy to erase.
Things will run their course, land and estate will all fade
For nothing can escape Mother Nature’s crusade
A thought that’s ironic and slightly more grim
Is the fact that Greg's creation has outlasted him.
Since immortality is a myth that She will never permit.
Soon the mill will be gone like the farmer who created it.

If I could ask your heart how much from me it could bear,
I might as well ask the same from the legs of my chair.
For posted on a chair, is a specific warning to heed
How much weight it can hold, how much not to exceed.

And as for your heart, for it not to break,
I should’ve been perfect, and should’ve made no mistake.
But over the years, I increased all its strain
Never knowing how much stress it could really sustain.

As if this heart wasn't holding enough
I’d given it more to lug when things got the slightest bit rough.
I knew of things you’d endured, the dark of your past
Instead of a savior, I was a lethal bomb blast.

Only when you broke did I accept all the blame.
You dealt with identical faults, my errors the same.
When cognitive dissonance and other issues arose,
Regrettably it was of you that I chose to dispose.

But if you could ask my heart how much for you it did care
You might as well ask me how much I need air.
For posted on my heart is a picture of you
And a list of things that I’ll never let you go through.