I love the voice.
I adore the beat.
I connect with the lyrics.
Our song moves me in ways nothing else can.
As I listen, a memory begins to stir.
You are there in my car; laughing, smiling, looking at me with those heartbreaking eyes.
How can a memory posses a song?
Like a sickness the song causes me to weaken and become sad.
I slow down and reflect on my loss of you.
How can it be so wrong to love what I once derived joyful feelings from?
Now all I obtain while listening is heartbreak.
Our Song is a haunted song.

A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.

Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?

I imagined myself leaving
someday.  Trading
plains for seas, exchanging
something loved for something
unknown.

And maybe it's the fear
of quietly whispering
goodbye that unsettles me.
Maybe it's the inevitable
end of familiarity,
like the sun's western descent
after a day that should not
end.
And when it does,
we all pack our bags
and say farewell.

Eventually,
I will trace new roadmaps on the
back of my hands;
I will find the familiar
creaks in the floorboards.

And when the sun sets,
someone will leave a light on
for me.

in-between cherry blossom
faces,
the dragon.