I’m slowly looking onward.
You all taught me how.
But when the weather is warm, I can still see our island.
I feel our hands clasped in a circle,
hear the trees above me as the wind refuses to halt.
We said that when we started,
we became who we are.

We could breathe in the summer when we were standing close.
And we argued it all: mistakes, human flaw, the presence of God.
And maybe you’ve forgotten,
but I hope when you look back
you still sing a green willow.

I tried to sway your broken mind, felt the pain of your direction,
and our audience told us it seemed so honest
and it was.
The day you asked us where we live, I waited for a letter.
I waited to hear that maybe I touched your life as much as you did mine,
something tangible to prove that it was all real.
I never got a letter.
But I’ll forgive the grounds of England we were never quite able to touch.
I’ll forgive the brief good bye given over a cheap dinner,
for the moments we smiled on the grass assure me that you came for a reason.

Though at times the silence still shuts my open mind,
when I hear your voice singing through my speakers,
I remember your influence.
You told us how you gave up everything to follow your dreams:
“It’s hard to do what you love,” you said.
You gave us up, too.
I remember running on the treadmill on a Sunday afternoon,
looking up only to see you on the TV screen,
proud to call you someone I once knew.
I continued to run, singing a green willow.

Maybe we’ll meet again
The poor soul sat sighing
in the place you’re sure is heaven.
by a sycamore tree
We’ll be on our island,
sing all a green willow
and I will feel our hands clasped in a circle,
her hand on her *****
hear the trees above me as the wind refuses to halt,
her head on her knee                                                
and think about that summer when we became who we are.
sing all a green willow
We will trace our memories back to the days that we were young
sing willow, willow, willow.

I have this idea of you.
Tattooed and beautiful.
Sarcastic and witty,
with a silver tongue
that tastes better than
the richest chocolate.

My brain is knotted to my head with ties I should unravel.
I guess it doesn’t do me any good to sit and think.
And in my dreams I’m in a boat and then the current makes it sink
and blood just pours into the ocean til I’m left with feeling weak
and these thoughts burn inside me deeper than the comfort that I seek.
It’s all a waste
and what’s the point if I would let my findings go

if it meant I’d see the outline of my sharp and brittle bones?
Clinging to every song I hear to search it for a kind of purpose
I could try to find a God to show me all this isn’t worthless.
Perhaps there was a word you said that made me keep on crawling
past the people who have told me I should focus on my calling.
Or perhaps it was a word you never stuck around to say
and I am left here on my own to try to seize these ******* days.
My mind is a machine creating thoughts that are contrived
and they can see the insincerity that’s dripping from my eyes.

TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.