Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

I saw a star who's name was liberty
I saw a sun who's name was truth
I found a soul who's name was love
I found a life who's name was unknown
In the darkest patchwork of night
I found light.

Love is so fragile, we entrust it to others to keep within their hands like a small,  delicate bird, so easily crushed if the grip is too strong.

There are days
where happiness
lives deep within
these sad walls of loneliness.

It is not in being heard,
but in having spoken,
in hearing your admissions -
the haunting silence broken.

you left your soul
for us to find
you left your footprints
for us to follow
you left your love
for us to feel
we will never be the same
without you.