A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

Russian dolls,
like paper notes,
burn and burn,
like our hopes.

You'd love thier brilliance,
had you seen them,
but if you do,
we can't redeem them.

Burning, burning,
day by day,
we smell the smoke,
as we play.

No red flags,
no warning's flown,
no siren wailing,
the reverent tones.

Physical wealth,
that we adore,
cannot compare,
to how we're poor.

Thougts exchanged,
for a shiny necklace,
Hopes and dreams
Are getting reckless,

Faltered seconds,
splintered moments,
If we only knew,
how to control this.

artificial reef
coral windows
and
luxury liners
we part in waves
that never reach the shore

iwanttofuckmedusa
intheassuntilshelooks
meintheeye
andseesherself­

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

i used to hate sundays,
but sometimes you hold
my hands in the pews
at church and i think that
i've been saved in more
ways than one