It’s a fire
You and I
It’s a word
We testified.

We grew larger
It’s a flame
Every singing crackle
It calls your name.

We have heat
You and I
Have many colors
Trapped inside my eye.

It’s a dream
Yet so real
Can we deny?
Should we feel?

It’s a fire
You and I
Such a flame
Grew so high.

It’s a fire
Me and you
Such abundance
Where fire stood blue.

I am from a pencil, from words, and paper.
I am from the two bedroom, one floor home.
I am from the roses, and the sun.
I am from homemade coffee and depression, from Bonnie and Charlie and Christopher.
I am from the anxiety and denial.
I am from not throwing things and not living life in fear.
I am from Angels surrounding, and Omnipotent protection.
I'm from Hartford and Greenwich, statesmen and viscounts.
From the pain in their eyes and rage they expressed, and the ignorance of men.
I am from the wall where the past hangs in frames.
From pictures of possible better times, yet maybe not any greater.
From pictures that may be of worse times, hidden behind these smiles.

What is that?
It holds the most wondrous words known to man.
Text lay carefully inside it, painting pictures for your mind.
What is that?
It opens and closes like a door.
It smells of old basements.
It is fragile, can easily be torn.
It lay anywhere you place it, it stays there.
What’s inside can be so meaningful, or mean nothing at all.
What is this fragile thing that holds the language of man?
It is book,
The best example of living and non-living.
The book itself cannot move, but the text inside can move you.
It is a book, I said.
The best way to look through other eyes.

She's nuts, and I keep trying to remind you that you're allergic.

I am nichts, only a memory.

believe whatever you want to believe,
but as for me, I believe that love wins.
Always.