Written words,
can not describe everything I do for you.
I write
I write
I write
For you
Thousands of similes, hundreds of metaphors,
smells, sounds, emotions, feelings.
Yet no words can describe why I write for you.
Ironic right.

I hold myself at night,
“I do”. . .  distant echoes, awake at night at your side.
The smell of linen, your snores so distant and yet so close.
I hate myself for dreaming. . .
Of someone coming to dance with me,
Even though they hate dancing only because
it's with me and no one else.
I hate myself for dreaming. . .
Knowing it's not you,
“I do” distant echoes, young lovers. . .
Formerly in love

Raindrops on my sea,
Let me float amongst his arms,
Deaths sweet lullaby

Amongst the tattered cathedral,
weathered chipped stone facade, scared by time.
Spires reach skyward like ancient fingers around me,
On my knee's at the pew,
I pray to god,
Pray for love,
Pray for an ear,
Pray for someone to just listen. .
Take me in your tattered fingers,
Pull me from the nightmare of my mind, save me from this weakness.
Longing to drown, only to breathe.
Longing to swim, only to sink.
Longing to fall, only to fly.
dull frescoes of angels, corrupted by cobwebs judge me.
There is no sound, only the hushed reverence unspoken.
Under lofty arches, my pleas are but echoes of weakness,
longing to die, but afraid of death.

The open window, a temptation for wings.
Sweet angel seduced by the purest nectar of the stars,
Your arms two cocoons of wings,
The gravel, the weeds, the cricket that sings all mark the path,
"Flee, Flee, Don't ever look back"
Yet your pour the smooth liquor in your glass,
one,two,three,five,ten it never ends. . .
The smell of cigars and upholstered leather, cling to the horror of the solitude as you take your last breath. .
All you are remembered for is "he was just a drunk"

Imagine the sky turns red,
Imagine the palm trees in flames,
Imagine the desert turns to ice,
Imagine the night never comes,
Imagine stars do not dazzle and grow bright,
Imagine, the world comes to and end,
Imagine, our hands intertwined,
   as we stare into one another's eyes,
         as we clutch one another, would it matter?
                  as we take our last breath, would I be enough?
It would not matter, for it would never come to be.
For, this is just a dream, of my imagination.

An abandoned fire loses its spark,
The warbler in love sings its song,
Only to find silence, please come back to me. . .