They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”

All the Barbies set adrift
in a dinghy small and pink,
smiling in that scary way
even when they start to sink,

“I just love sharks!” a Barbie said,
as one attacked and bit her head,
“Hey, wait for us, that looks like fun!”
said all the others, “Here we come!”
and pretty soon they all were dead.

In the dark, the cold air breaths,
And sends a shiver down my back,
In the dark my best friend leaves,
And I’m afraid she won’t come back,
In the dark my heart is marked,
And my sister turns away,
In the darkness I realize,
That I don’t want to stay.
In the darkness I found a light,
And you made my happiness clear,
Your whispered breath and broken smile,
Gently bring me here.
In the dark, your arms are open,
Your skin it cast off light.
Your voice so deep and sweet to me,
Says that I will be alright.

The dedication
was ingrained
in his fingertips,
(like Bowie,
like Bob), yet
there was no
boldness,
no brilliance
in the decay,
(like David,
like Dylan,
lord willin').

And so
I asked him:

Shall I
dare

to play
Baudelaire
over six flights
of stairs?

No?

Is it really worth
that much to you?
Is it worth anything at all?
Is just getting away always good enough?

And then I said to him,

kid,
sometimes
you gotta bury
'em.
And this is coming
from me with my chest
resting on the ground.

Snicker snicker, giggle giggle,
it's funny,
the way your pen wiggles.