you walked in and I realized the purpose of every frustration I faced over a failed relationship and people who faded away,
And even if you might not live onward in my life I'm thankful for the tiny moments that carried heavy weight to bring light into my eyes and remind my being that there were still people that felt like fresh breaths of air even after one single person took your breath away.

and when we meet, where can I find the words to tell you that this couldn't be a one time thing,
because my body could no longer accept fragments and blinks,
peices of emotions, chunks of hearts, files of information,
because I wanted to find a symphony, not just a few notes to create vibrations,
wanted your fingers to become magnetized to me; and mix up something other than butterflies

life had become a yellow-pages phone-book, a directory of names and numbers i'll never need but still keep around,
flipping through pages in hopes of finding what i was searching for, but finding the unknown places i never knew existed, like "Cartridge World" and "Indian Kitchen"
and the numbers that used to mean so much to find, mean nothing in no time, and i'm left with millions of area-codes and combinations of numbers that become encryptions, like the people i couldn't seem to figure out, or the ones that hung up the phone without saying goodbye,
life sounded like the leafing through pages and dialing numbers, the phone-lines and the voicemails, waiting for people to pick up the phone, and leaving messages in hopes of a call back, and listening to voices that radiate warmth one moment but turn cold the next, fearing every single dial will be a wrong number, and i'll never get connected to the right call.

they say you tend to create art in times of pain,
times of shame,
when you flick the light switch and forget the bulb has been dead and you can't reach high enough to change it.
when you call the one who runs laps around your mind, and those empty dial tones feel like the steady waiting in your life, wondering who, if anyone, will pick up the phone.
when you hold the pen up to the paper and forget the words to the emotions oozing out of your being, and paper was your last resort, in hopes someone would listen.
these moments tend to become reaccuring, repetitive, circulating though blood and marrow in my body, becoming a force made to stop time,
hoping I'll look back and understand why every puzzle piece is shaped the way it is, and I'll be the one picking up the phone

it was getting harder to find the light

i'd like to tell myself it didn't hurt at all,
that nothing was sorrowful, and you were transparent,
i should've listened to the overpowering insecurities in my head,
who devour the moments of beauty i manage to collect,
the sound of your words became deafening and all i wanted was to hear the magnitude of your thoughts,
i stared at pictures of her and tried to figure out what made her more alluring, seeking reasons for me to be less compelling, questioned if there were pieces i was missing that you found in her,
i retraced steps and wrote out maps, built bridges and came crawling back,
i was lost and there you stood,
creating and collecting temporary bliss and falsehood.

overdoses of assurance caused dimensions of fiction, illusions of devotion, wanting to shake myself out of hallucinations of affection and warmth, but i'm fastened in the bleakness of reality,
arms wrapped around me turned into cages only you hold the key to,
hands turned into something made to touch lustfully, tracing longing around skin,
tongues turned into snakes; manipulating words that will never hold weight to you, yet were universes and stars for my being,
words didn't anchor meaning,
the value of "i love you" disintegrated.