To taste the sugar on your lips,
to float on the mist that is in your breath,
to be the sparkle in your eye,
to cherish me always until I die.

I'm sorry for being a natural disaster.

I'm sorry the way my mood changes turns you into a quiet rumble of thunder, always dragging behind the lightning bolt until the full force of nature's fury is pounding down on your head.

I'm sorry for skidding into your world like a golden-tinged summer daydream and leaving it like a levee breaking.

I'm sorry for writing about you so much that your name is carved into my fingertips like water shapes a rock formation -- my journal probably wouldn't weigh so much if all my baggage wasn't crammed inside it.

I'm sorry that I can only write in figurative language lately but the concise truth is like walking barefoot on ice and after a while it's so cold it burns:

I never really loved you.

But admitting it means hailstones of lies battering my already-crumbling storm shelter, all our sunny afternoons grayed out by cloud cover.

And I'm sorry beyond all the weather metaphors in the world, but I can't bear that.

there was a man
with hair on his face
it grew and grew
all over the place

there was no place
it did not grow
a face so hairy
only his eyes did show

his big thick beard
was almost black
but red and blonde hairs
he did not lack

over his lips and ears
it did so drape
so he took his scissors
and began to shape

he took his time
he snipped with care
but in the end
he cut too much hair

his hair lay in a clump
within his hands he did cup
and thought to himself
well i ****** this all up

looking in the mirror
he really felt sad
thinking back 5 minutes
to the beard he just had

all and all
this really did blow
but it will be back
in a few weeks or so

This house made of brick and stone,
glass and wood,
now crumbles to the earth beneath me.
But this house was empty
long before it was gone.

The people inside,
the people
the people
the monsters,

They ripped open their lungs
and filled themselves with smoke.
They  ripped open their veins
and filled themselves with poison.
They grew sickly and cold
with black, sunken eyes.
They starved themselves to the bone
until that was all they were.
Feet shuffled against dark-stained hardwood floors,
yet they never touched the ground.

Ghosts.
Ghosts who couldn't sleep,
for the darkness was no longer home.
Ghosts who couldn't breathe,
for all they inhaled was smoke.
Ghosts who screamed.
Ghosts who cried.
Ghosts who never made a sound.

Holding on until fingers grew limp.
This house was empty
long before it was gone.