I saw it in a magazine,
on a gloomy indoors night.

The art of deconstructing;
     I read the article.

It took things apart,
but didn't place them

back together.

Deconstructing,

where taking apart
someone's soul
becomes as easy as
unscrewing a box.

Deconstructing,

we take each part and
lay it tidily over a white table.

And we do too,
deconstruct.

Like children unhappy
of their building blocks masterpiece,

we

fall

apart.

Everything we ever thought
we were comes away
with a blow of the wind.

We dissect our minds,
and become like all the others,
broken,
     empty.

We deconstruct and build
ourselves upon society's
stereotypes.

We moun our lawn
of personality,
all of our flowers
gone.

Crushes, smashes,
sounds of death.

We have become
like all the others.

The art of deconstructing,
or as they call it,
the Art of tiding up.

He heard it all
  the loss, the pain
  how she was no longer sane.

Evenings spent kneeling,
  crying and screaming,
  over a white cup, begging.
  for what these lines begin with.

Like a broken lightbulb,
  he watched her light fade
  and nothing stayed
  not even the

Pages she filled,
  begging for whatever it is
  these lines begin with.

There you are,
lonely and broken
and colourless.

In those pictures,
in the film,
in my mind.

You stood,
colourless but proud,
over a place that wasn't yours,

And it didn't look yours,
because it was never meant to be,
we both knew.

You stood,
lonely and cold,
and fragile
despite all that desired magnificence.

Because we both knew,
they would turn you into dust
someday...

Now you stay,
fragments of your dust in a ziploc bag

No name,
just faded blue and pink
and yellow
and memories
of a time that never came.

Your clock,
the bridge,
those arrows always
on the same time,
      why were they always on the same time
the time of end,
Twelve' o clock,
a faded dragon...

I've been there:
your roof,
those burgundy doors.

Is this a real place,
or not...?

This colourless land
of a time that never came
yet time, give it time...

"TEN YEARS!"
       - they said, yelled.

Then nothing came,
and lonely you stood.

And I'm sorry,
that I couldn't save you
not even a last goodbye

I loved you.
I'm sorry.

And now nothing stays
of a time
that never came.

I'm sorry,
my Wonderland.

She sits at the front of the bus,
curved over a black pram.

The fox looks out,
then looks at the little one
she's holding in her arms.

Her nose points up,
her small mouth is tightly shut.

The fox has nothing to say
today.

She carries a bag of flowers.

Her nails have a dark red
polish on that is falling into pieces.

Her small, dark eyes
scan everything.

First out
then him
then me.

She smiles,
and looks for compassion.

The fox has nothing to say
today.

Come with me,
what are you afraid of…?

The dark?

Don't worry,
I'll lead you to the brightest
garden on earth.

Where nothing hurts,
and light predominates our dreams.

I'll help you feel the rings
I wear on my fingers,
one by one.

Maybe you should kiss me,
take me far away,
and I assure you
I won't come back,
not without you.

What should I do?

Spend another sleepless night,
wondering about the taste of your lips?

Or just remembering them
on my cheek,

I'm tired of photocopying
each day upon the last one.

So come with me,
what are you afraid of?

Drag me down a hill again,
hold me in your arms again.

Come with me.

We'll go buy a box of pastels,
so that our spring can look younger.

So that you can rip a page a draw us instead.

Content,
on a hill.

Near a forest,
one step away from our glory,

gardening.

It smelled like you.
Like wilderness, like us.

The window was white,
from all the broken breaths we took
on the fifth day.

Then all of a sudden,
it smelled like butter,
frying in a pan.

Smell of someone's 2 AM dinner.

It smelled like the life
we were supposed to get back to.

And then like grass,
wet, clean, recently cut grass
bursting with life of a summer
that existed only with you.

i swear,
like a suitcase or a bag,
you took it with you:
a burst of daisies sitting in your pocket,
waiting for someone to look deep enough
to find them.

Daisies, and rabbits, and butterflies.

And in between condensation
against a window pane,
and your lips,
you became my everything.

What are the odds…
butter,
butterflies…

We're just holding onto
a piece of melting butter,
fusing under our own sun.

We were
just like a handful of stars
scattered upon an early summer sky.

Droplets,
of golden dust.

Your scars...

And since I didn't know better,
I fell.

Right when you broke
in my arms,
and sighed like a child.

Our matching scars…

Can you understand?

I just wanted to be
the nurse to fix you.

And if I knew,
you were going to last
for a moment only
like dust,

I would've held on tighter.

Us,
nomads of the sunshine,
never grown children of the past.