Furniture wrapped in plastic,
Clocks and crosses hug the walls.
Pastel colored trinkets on the shelves,
Silence fills each corner of the room.

Flowers on the kitchen table,
Falling one petal at a time,
She dives into the blue,
With a cozy glass of wine.

Coffee with one sugar,
English muffin dry,
Bird watch til nine, then
Days of our lives.

Tunafish on toast,
Water with fresh lime,
A passage from the Bible,
To forgive her of her crimes.

Dinner is a Xanax,
To give her that soft glow.
Her eyelids start to flutter,
Her dreams start to flow.

She's lived like this for years,
Probably always will.
Pills, prayer, and trinkets,
And Jesus as her thrill.

I've tasted the bitterness of cruelty,
And sat in a circle of salt to purify;
There I was able to quiet my mind,
And sweeten what was left behind.

Anger has heated my flesh before,
To a rose licked hue of rage;
Decisions were made to ignore,
I found wisdom without the age.

I've felt the hug of cool blue,
and the rain that always follows;
Found myself almost six feet down,
But I refused to be hollow.

Branches reach out gently,
To stoke the moons cheek;
And to remind her she is lovely.

In return she shines brighter,
And his leaves vibrantly glow;
And she reminds him he is strong.

Her phases constantly change,
And seasons steal his leaves,
And they drift apart for a while.

They do this dance each year,
And the circle goes around,
They are lovely and in love.

The worst memories are the cleanest,
Visited so regularly no dust collects,
No spiders crawl in to spin their webs.

The walls are yellowed with smoke,
And the table's water damaged with rings,
From all the hours spent there pondering.

The worst memories are the cleanest,
Organized daily to keep them clear,
Polished and treated like a shrine.

The curtains are heavy and allow no light,
The air is heavy and tastes like the sea,
Once you're there it's hard to leave.

Warmth like sunlight at night,
But you can stare and not squint.
Cells tingle beneath the weight,
Never crushed just tickled.
Breath leaves in soft waves,
That crash against rocky shores.

Ships collide,
And ships sink.

He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He's content on his knees,
He feeds from the screams,
and the souls he redeems.

He's got a complex mind,
He appreciates the grind,
He always takes his time,
A master of his crimes.

He's simple but complex,
He's an incredible wreck,
He whispers on your neck,
And answers to your beck.

He's a cosmopolitan queen,
He'll bring you to your knees,
He'll infiltrate with ease,
and he'll take what he needs.

Could my soul mate be,
A tree in a field all alone,
Or a street painter in Paris,
Or an opulent Arabian king.

Could my soul mate be,
A stone in a babbling brook,
Or a wise old widower,
Or a shaggy urban pan handler.

Could my soul mate be,
Also trying to search for me,
Or has the world made them hard,
Or has someone put out the flame.

Could my soul mate be,
The complete opposite of me,
Or are we eerily similar,
Or do we not even care.

Could my soul mate be,
Here sooner than later,
Or do I have to wait forever,
Or do they just not exist.