She is wonderfully unique,
an ensemble
of rhythms;
a hint of jazz
mixed with alternative music,
with just the right amount
of punk rock
and metal.”

Tell me this isn't where you want to be,
with the wind in your face
and the sun's warm embrace.

Tell me this isn't where you want to be,
with your feet in the sea,
and the waves in calm reverie.

Tell me this isn't where you want to be,
with your voice spilling over the mountainside
and that light, giddy feeling you feel inside.

Forgive me.

Forgive me, sweetie,
when I made it seem like I was alright after the separation;
after the crossroads where our paths split in directions
that led Us further apart when once we were inseparable;
our hearts and hands intertwined in love and in hope.

For as of now, it is over.

And I could never remember You, nor Your Love,
as something that did not put a smile on my face
as soon as I wake up, and as I fall asleep.

I cherished every day of Us

as if each day might be The Last.
That's why I always, always tell you that I Love You
whenever I had the chance.

I read somewhere that the only things that you leave for tomorrow
are the things you're okay dying having left undone,
and I wanted to spend every moment of You as something magical.
For the time I had with You was our own little infinity.

I was lost, and You found me.
I was difficult, yet You refused to give up.

And for that, I would rather spare You from the guilt,
and the grief, and the Loss of what You once had,

Because I still have it.

Even though we're no longer together,
it doesn't mean the caring,
and the concern,
and the corny jokes
that we both somehow find hilarious
have to end.

**Wyrda brought us together for a reason, Love.
And I'm happy that it did.

goes my ever unsteady heart.

It does not take a pile of torn-up forget-me-nots
for me to falter,
just a name;
Your name.

You are my solemn unmaking,
the end where I begin,
you possess the irrevocable capacity to have written me in reverse.

**** it.

"I hope he loves you more than I do,
and when he discovers
how weird you can be
may he love you even more for it.
I hope he cares for you more than I do,
and when the world feels cold
may he be your source of warmth.
I hope he understands you more
than I ever could,
and when the time comes that
you need him,
I hope he gets you right."

If I were to describe how moving on feels,
I’d liken it to a rehabilitation center
that broke me down
until I wasn’t even sure what to believe in anymore.
It made me doubt my passion,
and turned it against me,
until all that’s left was deep seated bitterness,
and the feeling of utter betrayal.
After a while, I thought I was cured.
But then, the withdrawal kicked in,
and I found myself consumed
by an intense longing.
I can’t recall how many times
I’ve been told to go back,
but each visit was always as miserable as the last.
And now I don’t feel like going back anymore,
since the medication doesn’t work at all.

You are
a work of art;
there is music
in your footsteps,
and melodies
in your voice.
This once
insipid world
is now
full
of colors.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you paint
the skies cerulean,
the curtains green,
the windows red?
In my sorrow
you put a finger
to these lips
as if to say
‘Let us not talk
about sad things’,
then you and I
would speak
about
the goodness
in everything.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you teach
these lips
to express
the miracles
of life,
laughter,
and love?
You had a
gentleness
about those
around you
like you knew
everyone
was fighting
their own battles,
everyone was worth it.
Compassion should
be given where it
is needed.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you show
me when to
give somebody
a shoulder to cry on,
a hand to hold,
a kiss g'night?
Darling,
how I miss you so.
Everything has changed
-even you and I-
but perhaps
you are
all of the
loveliness
that I have written
-and will ever write about-
from the very beginning.
And I
just
couldn’t
grasp you
clearly.
How I
hear,
see,
think,
and feel
are all
different now.
Did you lend
a hand with that?

~*D.C.

The quiet wasn't peaceful
merely full of words
neither of us could say

Do you know
what it means
to lose heart
when you
have
so
much
of it?
You’re loving
faster than
you’re losing
love,
and
some nights
even breathing
becomes unbearable.

If what’s on my mind
is real,
I am
but
a stone’s throw,
wind’s blow,
free arrow
away
from
dying;
not
in the literal sense,
but in
the
worst
way
possible.
Here’s the danger
when you tell someone
you love them;
you put yourself
at risk
of dying daily.
And all I have
are words.
Words,
and words,
and words.

— *D.C.

I don't miss You
as much as I did a week ago;
I miss You more,
but not in the same way as love birds do
when la mia amata
just  
wasn't
the same anymore.
Do You know how love birds love?  
The pain of losing their loved one is so intense
that they cope with the loss
in self-destruction.
Do You know how love birds love?
They Love fully,

*even after Death

Because even though
we aren’t as we
used to be
the truth
of the matter is
that I
always
want to be
with
You.
A friend told me
about how
dictionaries work;
about how
-when you look it up-
Life
comes before
Love.
And I realized
that maybe you knew
from the very beginning.”

There is
a mirror,
blurred,
and misty,
where
I wrote
Your
name
in
pleasant
reminiscence,
showing me
just how much
I really do
miss the very
light
of you.
And here's
the change
you've made
in me:
I can write
about
The Sun
now.
You walked
into my life
for a reason,
you've
taught me
how
Happiness
is
a choice,
and right
now,
I
choose
to be
happy.

In my mind's eye
I see
the vast expanse
of the abyss
as it looms
ever closer
into conscious reality.
Something dark,
ancient,
and sentient,
awaits in
disturbed slumber
to bring about
chaos
to the world.
Its tendrils
reach out
to envelop the sky
darker and darker still
until all that remains is
its very presence.
And when
the hour is at hand
the darkness fades
into the earth
and sleeps

*until the harrowing cycle begins anew.

No matter how,
or where,
or when,
I'm the best kind
of happy
when we're together again.

I’m not sure where to go,
but I sure do have a lot to do.
If only my voice didn’t crack whenever I sang.
If only my fingers were steady when I hold a guitar.
If only my feet were coordinated as I start to drum.
If only my ears never missed a cue during a performance.
If only my hands wouldn’t stop as I wrote a song.
There’s so much I want to do,
and I’m just a normal dreamer like everyone else.
It takes both heart and mind to make good music.
You have to sing from your heart,
and you have to keep who’s listening in mind.

~*D.C.

was not ready
for lovers
who found it
easy
to walk
in
and
out
of its life.

There’s something about
ebony hues,
and how I’m terribly fond of them;
be it on cats, or hats, or shoes,
the sweater my mom gave to me,
the guitar she brought home
from one of her trips,
my bag that’s torn in some places,
or the hoodie I keep as a memento.
Like the color of your hair,
or the color of your shoes,
dark as a lightless night
but still clear as day.

And I know
you’re afraid of the dark
but I hope that the dark isn’t so scary
when we’re facing it together.

I hate you
and there are a dozen things
I want to tell you
right now
but I just want you to know
that I
will never forget you.
These past few days
just seemed so unreal,
but I’m glad that they happened.
Oh, and I think you’re real cool.