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 Sep 2017
Idiosyncrasy
All my life
I always wanted to leave
You were the only one
Who made me want to stay.
You were enough.
 Aug 2017
Idiosyncrasy
Now there is only
one thing left to say
I love you
Always
That is not a metaphor.
We writers have a way of expressing our love in ways that sometimes people do not understand. We try to cover our love with sweet words like everyone's favorite chocolate or sparkles brighter than the diamonds on fingers. Then, there is pain too. Sometimes our words are sadder than we are. Sometimes they cannot even contain the intensity of what we feel. In the end, what we really want to offer is our love.

I plan to make this the ending of a long poem but I have not written anything more yet so this is all there is for now.
 May 2017
Idiosyncrasy
We were never lost
     in each other's eyes
Because it is in each other
     that we found home.
Happiness can say hello and goodbye to you on the same day.
 May 2017
Idiosyncrasy
On the last page
They read the last line
The last word
Together
Goodbye
So it ends
But the next chapter
Is just a page away
But sometimes
It's just better
To not know
What yet awaits.
Goodbye.
 May 2017
Idiosyncrasy
How wonderful it is
To tell you
I love you
But how terrifying
That when you say
You do too
*I cannot make myself
Believe.
I'd really want to believe.
 May 2017
Idiosyncrasy
When you put on your makeup
     to turn gray into vibrance
Or when the costumes you wear
     are no longer pretend
I'll be with you till the very end.
There are things to tell you but the show needed rain.
 Apr 2017
Idiosyncrasy
I think there are people
who do not want to be happy
Because they know
happiness might go away
And once it's gone, they know
they might not reach that again
That it will just be a reminder
of what they no longer have
And they'd rather not compare
I think there are people
who do not want to be happy
Yes
*There are people like me.
I'm tired of crying. I'm scared of believing.
25/30
 Apr 2017
Idiosyncrasy
I am lost
and you are
the only landmark
I know.
Take me home.
23/30
Words are now
as if
I never wrote

gather as an aching
lump in my throat.

They don't seek paper
only a river
to pour and mingle
in refrains of a dumb sadness
flow away
sunburned and tidewashed
to where the river is widest
deepest with sighs
of life not enough
in once only
and when just begun
ending broken on the shore.
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