Time.
My one true solace.
My one true despair.
Offering joy and the sadness
from knowing
that all the bad times will come to an end,
but also...
the happy ones, too.

I once wrote on his wall,
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Now that's changed,
because he changed it.

We'll never be that couple, skating in the pond,
We'll never be that couple, singing to that song,
We'll never be that couple, dancing in the silence,
We'll never be that couple, watching the caged lions,
We'll never be that couple, walking arm in arm,
You'll never complete my couple,
You left my aching heart.

We didn't have to part,
You didn't have to break my already aching heart.

I'll listen with my heart
for the tune unheard;
for the soloist's song
sliding through the world.
I don't need to know the notes:
only feel the love.
I don't need to know the words:
only hum softly to the silence.

And when I'm dancing,
line by line,
to your sweet Harold
I'll play it all over again
just to feel your care,
just to know and smile and laugh

*because I know you're there.

Parts of you and pieces of me,
broken bits and shattered dreams
mean not what they aren't meant to be,
but instead the things they ought to seem.
And yet somehow I do believe,
that dreams are just our yet-to-be's.

I write in bursts of twos and threes,
I write about snow and shining seas,
I write so that my thoughts release,
I write so my mind can give me peace.

A cluttered artifact,
I look at it.
Pens, papers, memories.
"unorganized... a mess... disgusting... a pigsty"

My feelings bubble.
No,
none of those things.

Only just... pieces of me.

I don't want to be a rigid, ordered desk,
I like the way I am:
crazy and a mess.