When you reach that point
but the point is sharp.

A busy, coffee-smelling Sunday morning
With noisy banters while cooking and dining
Natural gatherings with our parents
A time to fix the little cracks and bents

But alas, my father is under the soil
While mother uses her time to toil
And I am left in my own devices
Do try to imagine how everyday is

And oh, please try to remember albeit
I am not a sad child at all, at least not yet
For I always reason, not in deceit,
That my family isn't broken, just incomplete

O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite;
For you in me can nothing worthy prove—
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceasèd I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart.
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
    For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
    And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

I'll keep these words inside,
prompted by the fear that
you'll see not me but rather
the trees at my back, and
the forest will greet you, and
that my arrogance will come to
light and I'll get nothing
I was hoping for

I can't tell you what I feel because
we're not that close

I can't tell you what I fear but
maybe my taste in music can do
the talking instead

I love the way
how you rip open your heart for her
even when all she has to offer you is salt for your scars.

I love the way
how you offer me the salt
that was spilled and saved from your scars
I love that burn
Of ripping open my heart for you.