11 days, I spent in grey hospital socks
wandering halls bare, not even clocks
17 girls, all torn and broken inside
opened our wrists, drank cyanide
"behavior heath", but we knew was psych
held wandering souls, all pale and ghostlike
sat in a circle, we shared and we cried
of times we stole, drank, smoked and lied
stories of ****, abuse and pain
somehow all one and the same
different faces and different lives
but most chose to end it with knives
but failure brought us all to this place
to learn a new name, gain a new face
fed us some pills and watched how we'd do
if we'd scream and suddenly turn blue
but only a few continued to fall
and theirs are the saddest stories of all
my heart broke each night as I sat and heard
one of the girls minds became blurred
still even now, I shed a tear
for every lost soul, that we never hear

I've written love stories for strangers in the street,
Sang sonnets for puppy love crushes,
And sketched the delicate details of lovers I've only met in dreams.
Yet somehow, I cannot seem to muster the strength
It takes to write a single line of text for you.
The melody to our story escapes my memory,
It almost seems too painful to imagine how your face wrinkled in a smile.
Your name rings a hundred times over in my mind,
I can feel it's claws deep in my chest
Crawling up my throat, begging to be said aloud.
As your ghost walks by my side,
Offering a transparent shoulder to rest my head against
I immediately become lost in your absent touch.

Unbeknownst to me,
I made even the most vivid of my almost-love stories
A distant shadow of memories clouded with delusion.  
Rather than confront the truth of our incompatibility
I hide between crowds in the street and the indents of building entryways,
Afraid your eyes will meet my painted on smile
And decide, in an instant, to look the other way.
As if I'm merely a passing image, instead of an old half that didn't quite fit.
As if you didn't know me at all, like perhaps you wish you never did.

I've composed symphonies in the fleeting names of thousands,
Erected statues for flirtatious, one minute interactions,
And created masterpieces for those who don't remember my name.
Yet the thought of putting you into art seems to crack my soul
And leave the contents spilling out with no one to return them.
To consciously put in order the tornado of a romance we shared
Would be to admit it actually meant something to me-
And that it still does, somehow, have a hold of my mind.
But that would also be to admit that you belong with all the others,
Which you so clearly stand apart from.
To make such art would betray everything I ever felt for you.

For you, every novel will go unwritten.
My canvas filled with landscapes and still lifes,
I'll paint every face blank with your shadow.
Love songs and beautiful melodies remain only for ten digit number exchanges
That die as quickly as they start.  
Every word I write about the stranger from the coffee shop,
Or the chance encounter while buying groceries
Will be dripping with your memories,
How you glanced long and touched soft.
Slowly I'll forget how your voice felt on my skin
And the way my body intertwined with yours at night.
Never again will your image hover over my head and drown me in my sleep.
Everyday I walk without your ghost in the back of my mind
Will be your symphonic, poetically sculpted masterpiece.

We all paint our lives.
The mountains of challenges,
The rivers of tears,
The waterfalls of joy.

We mix the colours of sorrow and laughter
And add the colours of experience and the years that passed.
The souls we will always remember
And the moments we will never forget.