His eyes flickered so brilliantly
He'd often melt his skin.

In a cave by the ocean burned
A man's heart from his chest cavity
Carved open, froth from the sea
Slipping into his lungs and
Smoke from all the guns ever triggered
Seeped from behind his eyes,
Lips cracked with the truth but spoke
Only regret,
Mouth forever frozen in enlightenment
Sought but not shared,

And oh, how the ocean weeps,
For messages in bottles mean nothing
Without ink.

Her lips were like makeshift
Velvet candy,
Her eyes gleaming green
Like a cat's,
Slits of gray and chocolate
Rounding her iris and
Hair made of fire and sun
Alike,

She was a book that could
Chill your soul with the gaze
That warmed your thoughts,
A book whose edges were frayed
And cover was worn,
But oh, how her words dripped
Heavy with ink and passion
As though she had been reprinted.

And he lay down
To sleep until clocks ran out
Of time to tick away,

And he slept through
Endless waves of storms,
Soaking his mattress but never his skin,

And he made sure to pull
On all the loose frays that
Held his sloppily stitched shut eyes

Tight and forever binding.

Hazy hums and unbalanced
Sways fill these days
Of intoxicated sights and
Fights to stay awake,
Quick glances and last chances
For first kisses those
Who isolate inside surely will miss,
Dream riddled breaths that bring
The death to self-preservation,
Locked eyes screaming the
Unanswered "why"s of adolescence, with
Hugs so tight all the chipped
Heights of souls stick back
Together in mismatched arrays
Of awkward days and repeating
Sayings, a monotonous clammerful
Lifestyle once looked at so glammerful,
Manifesting itself in violet twilight
And warm-soaked, color-spilled sunsets,
Early morning blinks of sleepless
Thoughts to think and streets to walk,
Thoughts of talks rather unspoken
And love never broken.

There was a love
Living deep in the
Melting plastic of
Molding bottles of water,

Barely breathing breaths
Of spray paint and
Rusting needles,

Bond only by the
Yellowing, lip-like cracked
Pages of a story

Written between the margins of a novel.

It wasn't so much
The fibers of her being
That made the sun get
Out of bed each morning,

But rather the image of
Her existence that coaxed
The Universe to spin steadily
On the axis of eternity.