Is this how you fall in love?
Do you analyze the way she talks, hoping it can reveal the secret to the way she walks?
And how does she think?
Will she leave behind little hints?
Letters taped to a heart shaped box, my only hope to get in, is If I can manage such locks?
And does she ponder such thoughts as I do?
Although this thought has always held the most true, with me...
Where the **** is she?

You told me to hold onto my dreams,
Without really knowing what I've been dreaming of.

"One final gift", I surely hope it fits.
One missing kiss, that soon I'll wish to forget.

Maybe it's enough to dance by yourself near the sea.
They say when you love someone else,
It's simply reflecting your being,
And here you dance with me.
||In solitude I find you,
And in loneliness seek,
Fewer rainy days where rocks are thrown at the sea.
Yet there are too many stones underneath,
That keep you from me.
Too many cuts on these hands,
To hold yours in the deep.
||Though I try,
To shift while you shift.
Reflect how you reflect,
Miss what you miss,
By the moon's light.

I feel silly
I feel negative
I feel willfully,
Needing a sedative.

My muse was loving you.
My muse was being hurt by your love.
But you not loving me.
Your realization of never truly being in that love,
That isn't a pain I can even begin to write about.

A quill to ink,
A certain realization.
That these have been,
The words you have written.

He hasn't felt the warmth of another's breath in too long. Many nights are spent with only his air painting clouds beneath his lips. Bathed in the cold dark, the cabin flinches by every ask of the wind, it's floorboards creek under pressuring steps, and yet his body only shivers from it's isolation. Untentative ripples, pure in their commitment to the fall of sensibility and control; never to have those windows repaned again. See now how the guests of wind tear at the neighboring cloth on his body. Colder colder, and ever more lonesome. Here he sits with no hammer, no nail, lamenting and moaning, expecting a ship in the woods to come and set sail with the morning.

The wound of loneliness.
Not to be talked upon now.
And isn't that exactly it,
A quiet voice distracting from bigger ideas,
And bigger people.

The things that start my fires,
keep burning down this house.
When the paper reaches air,
I rarely like the smell.