She was ethereal.
She would walk her way back home under the moonlight in the freezing winter nights. She was made out of pain and nostalgia. Not even sweet death could compare to her pale face, always covered by her tangled dark hair. She used to lie in bed wishing to be somewhere as cold as she felt, dreaming of wreck and defeasence of everything she had ever known. If she wasn't reading stories, she would make them up in her damaged head. If the story wasn't enough, she would let her demons eat the last nerves that somehow had made it through.
She felt alone yet constantly watched over. She was hoping for someone to stay around. She was hoping to be someone else's muse. She wanted them to ache, burn inside, scream at the top of their lungs just like she did. She wanted to be the reason. But deep inside she knew nobody would turn back to her.
She thought she was out of place, out of this world, made of outer space. But she was not. She was just a girl. She bled, needed and loved. She thought her tragically beautiful soul was a waste.
She's been missing for years now.
Sometimes, when everything comes down all at once and the weight of the world gets too hard to hold up, I still can feel her, after all this time. Sometimes I think I can see her wandering, floating around like the daydream she was.
The thought of her leaving forever stabs my chest every night.
And I can't sleep.
Just like she did before.
She's my muse but she never knew.

He was the darkest of dark nights.
He was the view through a hospital room's window, right through the long wild waving grass. He was the feeling of freedom I could never reach.
He would appear when I needed it the most, as unexpectedly as the breeze hits a field at summer nights.
He was the sound of the saddest piano notes at the end of a heartbreaking song.
He was always there, he was always watching.
He would look back at me with his green eyes wide open and his mouth shut. He knew all the answers, but he wouldn't say a word. Words were never needed.
Walking heartbroken down the dark streets last night, I looked up from the ground, where the town disappeared, fading into the wild lands, covered by the midnight skies, slightly touched by the moonlight. I felt him.
Looking right into my ripped soul and deepest broken hopes, with the same old expression across his face. He faded in the winter winds.

You're lying on your bed and say
"I'm all I have, I can live with that".
And suddenly there's sleepy kisses
and late night walks
and hands intertwined
and a warmth you've never known before.
You know you should slow down
but all you can do is kiss him longer
and surrender yourself to sleep on his arms.
You both walk down the streets
with clouds beneath your feet,
and you throw away your pills
'cause nothing will ever make you feel like him.
You feel the clouds fade away within seconds,
and all there's left are goodbyes at train stations
and one last kiss at the airport.

And you go back to bed
but this time you can't get up,
filled with memories of happier nights
healing to the sound of his heavy breathing;
memories of the way he would slightly shake in his sleep
and the messy hair resting on your neck.
You're lying on your bed again and say
"I'm all I have, I can live with that"
but this time your voice cracks up a bit
and tears fills your eyes,
and maybe it wasn't such a good idea to throw away those pills.

07, June 2015.
But moving on, changing places or taking a plane
and leave this bruised home seems impossible for me,
still trapped in this four cold, foggy, silent walls.
The energy of what could have been and the lost hope
is still audible from the distance.
Here, at the edge of this bridge,
where the lonely road disappears in the early morning winds.
This whole town is still burning from the lost battles and fought wars,
with dead ashes from a broken heart.