fire.
a burning flame,
full of wrath and hatred,
holding grudges against people
who loved you the most.

water.
flooding water pouring through streets,
pouring down cheeks,
as you curled yourself into a ball,
reassuring yourself you’d be okay.

air.
a calm, sweet wind,
moved trees and sent the scent
of flowers to your lungs,
calming you as you took
a long, slow breath.

earth
the cool, soft earth
that you dig your nails in,
holding on tighter than imagined,
and you wondered,
how could you lose yourself?

one day we will all be forgotten
and no one will remember the way your eyelashes
fluttered in the moments you retained conciousness.

they will not remember
my melancholy eyes as you spoke words
that sounded like waves crashing through my ears.

they will not remember
the sight of your hand enfolded into mine
with our innocence being the main focus of the image.

one day i will no longer
remember who you were or what you meant to me.
however,

i currently have no plans of forgetting you
any time soon.

this room may be filled with color,
but all i see is grey.
this world may be filled with light,
but i am shrouded in darkness.
this face may replicate a smile,
but the heart holds a longing
for youth, freedom, love,
overshadowed by a depression
i cannot overcome.
i spend my waking days
growing weary, sleeping until
my headaches have passed,
eating until i become so full
i can ***** out my feelings.
and yet, i have not let a tear fall
because i am waiting for the day you'll wipe them away.

she begged for god
but god left a long time ago.
i could understand
where she saw hope,
but the light she saw
was just the spark of a lighter.
another day passed,
another moon risen.
we paint our faces like
babylonian ******
and step out into the streets
to drown our troubles
in ***** and older men.
we lie to our parents
when we come home,
but we are still little girls
who smell like cigarette smoke
and ***.
her room is filled
with dead artist on her wall,
records in the corner,
a forgotten guitar
she often glances at before meeting
me under a streetlamp.
we quote jim morrison
and sing amy winehouse
as whiskey slides down our throats
and burns our chests.
the men we drink with say
we remind them of their daughters
but by the end of the night
the liquor in them draws them to our
'old souls'.
and now you watch her
from the other side of the bar,
the eye contact holding
a lust and desire
only eros could create.
as you swig back
the amber liquid
in your glass,
only one thought suffocates
all others;
you'll have her begging for god tonight.