it's 5am
the moon is still awake
the birds sings
and the cold wind blows
over the silence

the rooster crows
and i smell
the sweet fragrance
of grasses
and i don't mind
if it's dark or cold

i have to see you
before you go home
to tell you goodbye

before i'll miss
your lips
your hugs
and your eyes

i hope by 6am
when you go
when we separate
our ways
you'll miss me too

i try to find
those things that
hold me close to you

they hold our memories
and they make me feel
like you're holding me

i'm holding onto you
but i still feel like falling
just like my tears
that i can't hold back much longer
and they fall onto the things
in a paint-splattered manner

I was in love with her and she knew it.

I haven't moved on, I haven't moved on
I'm still stuck on you and I never even knew you
I never felt your hand in mine and it's still the only thing I need
I never knew the way your breath warmed the crevices in my neck
and I still wish to know how your lips would feel
pressed to mine, at 3 am when your touch is the only thing
I desire deeply enough to deny myself sleep
I don't know what you meant when you said you couldn't tell me
I didn't understand, and it's been nearly a year,
but I still don't
and sometimes when I look at the grass, and in the sky
and at the bottom of a bottle of cheap *****
I think of you
and I think of how you left
and I think of how much I still can't comprehend
and I had no closure
and you didn't care
no closure
no closure
no means of explanation
just a body that I never knew
and a pair of hands that float in thin air
and arms that will not hold me in 5 years
when I'm still unstable thanks to my first love

he thinks that i have found you
when my eyes meet his

he thinks i have fallen in love with you
when i tell him
i'm falling

he thinks he meets your eyes
when he looks at himself
in the mirror
smiling
looking over his shoulder at me
pretending to be sleeping

he thinks i hold your hand
when i am holding his
and that you kiss it
in the moment he presses his lips
to my skin

how do i tell him
that he isn't you
the one with ink staining his fingertips
holding me
his books
torn
underlined paragraphs
falling apart
on my lap

how do i tell him
that the butterflies i have
when i see him
are for him
but not for you

how do i tell him
that his love
beautiful
is not mine
and the heart
he thinks
i hold
is the one i slipped back into his chest
while he was sleeping..

i don't need photos to
remember you;
you are burned
onto my
heart