in these winter days,
i feel strangely nostalgic.
i think about her, i do
but it is with happiness
in my heart and, more importantly,
in my brain.

it's over,
the page is flipped
the world is spinning
and the poets keep writing.
they write about love and hate
and sadness and happiness so great
you feel you're floating and you'll never land
but that's okay because you feel safe

and i still miss her

i miss her with my every breath
i miss her with all my cells
i will miss her until the end of times

and i'm happy

i'm happy when i'm sad
i'm happy when memories of her
flood my veins and i feel as though
it will be too much and i will surely perish.

because, at the end of the day,
what is happiness?
it's a beautiful, unknown path to me

but i think that, perhaps, it is time
to get lost on it.

"What use is air to me ............
if I cannot breath your breath ..........
Kiss me ....... and give me life .................

I'm sitting on the terrace
Of the condo of my aunt
And trying to enjoy the breeze
But sadly, I just can't.

For next door there's a neighbor
I can't see, behind the wall,
Yet his smoking habit somehow seems
To permeate us all.

He obviously steps outside
So all his inside air
Stays relatively clean; at least
The smoke won't hover there.

But what he doesn't think of
Is about the smoke he blows,
Or when it wafts exactly
Where it is that vapor goes.

If he would ask, I'd answer
'Cause no matter what he thinks,
It's invasive and intrusive
And to top it off, it stinks!

putting back my pieces together. holding up and standing strong. i shouldn't be bothered anymore, i shouldn't care. i have to stop