you remind me of the evening thunderstorms: cold, terrifying, yet so beautiful. when i said that your smile radiates joy, i wasn't exaggerating. when i whispered that the touch of your hand warms my heart, i meant it from my deepest palace of mind. the thought of you alone is enough to make my body tremble for i cannot cope with so much feelings. i'm craving for you yet my heartbeat always goes faster every time i think of being close to someone other than myself. i am eager for the sense of your skin against mine but i still can't get rid of these metals that locked my heart out for you. i want to say that i'm madly in love but i don't know if i can be madder than i already am. being with you is like cutting my own body parts into pieces; it hurts so bad but it's much better than being alive and numb. i wish i could take it easy like the detectives when they solve problems but my problem is you and you are nothing but a bunch of puzzle pieces that confuse me all the time. i really wish things weren't so complicated inside this forest in my head.

The forest remembers many things.
Like that night we sat under the moon.
The forest remembers how we laughed,
and how you made me swoon.
It remembers all the kisses,
and the tears I shed that night.
It remembers all the blood and sweat,
it remembers that big fight.
The forest never forgets,
our memories are forever there.
So if you ever get lonely, love,
you can find me in the forest care.

You didn’t tell me about farewell.
I had no idea
how much I could miss you
until missing you
was the only thing
I could do.

My words have the power to cut
and sting, and draw blood
from all your hidden wounds.
They are glass shards, hidden
in plain sight, on the paper.
Thorns, wrapped around your heart, pull
tighter to the sound of my words. And you
mistake this pain I inflict for
intellect and the pangs
I cause you for
sharpness and wit.

But now, I find that my own wounds
are healing, and the words
which I previously wrote
in my own blood, do not come, flowing
as they once did. My ink
is running out. And some of you, the ones
I love dearest, are like me
But you keep your ink
pouring, even as you suffer. I
cannot be like you, I
am not so strong. My nature dictates
that my wounds must heal, and I,
in my weakness,
must let them. Your sharpness comes
at the greatest sacrifice
a person could give.
I know this. And yet, I still
Aspire towards you. Bleeding
myself as I do so.

And now that I see
growing scabs
decorating my wounds, and my blood
clotting and drying, I just
wonder- now that I
resemble you no more, will you forget
the formerly vibrant colors of my pain?
Will you forget my brief stint
as one of you?
Will, much as my wounds are,
the gates close? As I lose
this sharp tang of
my perceived brilliance,
will my alluring, painful glitter
fade to you?
You, who are strong,
(or maybe in my foolishness
I only see
your masochism as such)
Will you leave
Me
Behind?

when the language of rain
is in need of
translation.

when the parallel lines
have
crossed.

when observing the time
by the pizza boxes
arching
toward
a ceiling fan.

when pages of
stories are skipped
to the end unread.

rain touches the lonely,
rain is weaving  
the hearts
with dreams.

rain colors the lonely
arching in color
touching the sky.  

droplets  of water
through your window glass
tapping of comfort
of watering eyes.