Leaves whispered the sounds of our past
In desolate silence we watched,
The grounds slick with dew
A broken hourglass concealing candle fumes.

The grey skies loomed overhead
The wind crooned echoes of our songs
Yellow meadows bleeding out their life
Whimpered to the stars in the sky all night long.

Dry, withered leaves with veins threaded to it,
Fell from the branches
Like tears down our cheeks.

Spring bloomed but sunk like our hearts
Our sight becomes a misty grey
Lost in the mist we started to fade
Among the darkness that concealed the truth
And bolted it shut, in a bird cage.
  
Our eyes were dull like a calm ocean’s tides
Never thinking about the time passing by
Weeds prickling our skin as we walked through grass
Looking at old addresses we burned through glass.

Forgetting about the days that passed so fast
Such that the paper is crumpled and torn
Like the words hanging from our lips until
They are scattered on the murky pavements we came upon.

Illuminated by the dim lampposts on the road
They read the broken promises we once told
Lies and truth connecting with each other in years to come
They were lost once spiders spun them into moonlight
And threaded leaves into the branches burned in a ghost town.

I promise I'll try to stop strumming nightmares to hearts.

The space between my fingers to my heart is greater than
the distance between the cliff and the waves.
I feel so d i s j o i n t e d.
Is there a word for this? I guess I could consider it a curse.
When I tell myself not to write.
                                              -coldness
Wh­en I look at the sky and back at equations.
                                              -coldness
When I'm running out of time.
                                              -coldness

**­Soon, I'll get hypothermia from sadness.

“Wishes are made to be broken,” he says,
stacking up rotten dust-filled letters beside the trash can.
no matter what he says,
he was never able to throw them away. just a couple of years’ ago
his words would climb up tree trunks and lamp posts instead of
tripping and falling like a drunken figure on the rooftop the night before
Surely the candles that he keeps lighted up around the house at night
have more meaning than this words.
but the fact that they still don’t help him see in the dark
frightens me; to see him stumbling into a building, to the rooftop.

maybe the city lights from the roof would show him the missing step.

**I really don’t want him to fall.

Frozen roses lined her arms,
white frost tainting her heart,
red blood spilled on pavements
with snow to cover her cuts.

Rain splintering her skin
like broken wood in a haunted house,
her mind screams, throat closes shut,
the beating of an empty heart.

A thief under the moonlight
couldn't scream to save a life,
she dreams of smudged paintings and rusting knives;
fell prisoner to a world of lies.

A falling figure couldn't change his mind,
hearts kidnapped and nowhere in sight,
she was racing past the wooden doors,
to save an angel from taking flight.**©

Sometimes it hurts to watch sunsets.

they remind me of old addresses and lost graves
scribbled pages of notebooks talking about dark nights.
    a
        n
            x
                 i
                     e
                         t
                             y
I pressed a knife to lips and shattered cries
does it hurt to push past your sadness or will it feel like
clawing your eyes out?
there wouldn't be a pinprick of light on the highways except for a figure
on the roads
crying out to the oceans underneath, tearing apart smudged letters
like the ones I filled in my books.

now back to sunsets, will you watch them with me?©

I.
Sometimes drunken flowers are placed between books and
his lips are clamped shut
while i walk past trashcans and find letters
buried,
like his bones
with forced smiles carved upon each and every one
hands reaching out, grabbing
i could feel its yearning
from a mile away
and i shut my ears and clench my eyes
i can't stand the feeling twice.

II.
My soul was shot;
i later burned it with matchsticks and clouds
sand pricked my feet
as i sit for hours on end at gas stations and sidewalks
lamps were never lit in my house and
i was left
among the darkness.
i never saw you behind the trigger.

III.
I don't trust the black and blue hue
growing on my chest;
they say its from my heart.
I laugh them away and
tune out the rest.
"I have no heart, you made sure of that."
emotions i used to scorn and
cringe at
appear on paper and skin as words
that looked like my
splintered bones and
broken footsteps.

can i talk about the time when scarecrows were making torches and chairs
or will someone realise that i'm talking to thin air?©