O how it cracks
O how it tastes
O how the tang waits
Upon my face
Till the bag is gone
A new day waits

Should the breadth of silence stretch,
Maria, sweet girl of the boughs of flowering
pear and tangerine trees, your stocking-foot
brown like the branch of a sapling tree,
and should the dark profundity of the earth
begin to part (among the hymns and litanies
of things I cannot comprehend
is how Orpheus sang down the earth to part
beneath his feet) then the rich black soil of spring
is where I plant the Could-flowering seeds
of all that I am not brave enough to be.

(chérie, avournine, Eurydice;
you will forgive the
thousand words I do not speak
when you know that language is
but the honeysuckle beneath your feet.)

Perhaps you fail to see
the beauty of broken things.

Beauty is the pen that has run out
of ink but is still kept in a
desk drawer.

It is the chipped teacup that
drinks comfortably,

the last ice in an empty glass
at 4 o'clock in the morning.

It is the comfort of a broken
clock, because it never tells you
where to be or what to do,

and the door that doesn't close
but reminds you to keep
your heart open.

It is the broken steps in the stair
that you choose to skip

and the tears in your eyes as
you stare into the broken
bathroom mirror because you
never seem to know your worth.

When I look at you, I don't see
a broken girl,

something that needs to be fixed.

When I look at you I see
beauty

in every scar and imperfection,
and I will gently kiss your smile,

wipe away your tears and tell you,

you're not broken;

you
are
perfect.

i want you
and all the possibilities you bring.

i want to kiss you
until we are both drunk with happiness
and our lips are swollen with the longing of our future.

i want to crawl under your covers
and escape from the world
even if just for a moment.

i want you
to want me.

One day you wake up early on a Sunday morning because of the sunlight peeking through your curtains. You decide to get some coffee at the coffee shop around the corner and you sit there reading your favourite book, drinking your as-usual-ice-coffee when eventually a complete stranger walks up to you. The two of you start talking and it feels like you've known eachother for like ever. You order another coffee, and another one. And that morning you didn't even dare to think of the fact that the next Sunday morning you would wake up next to the love of your life.

so shines street lamps tonight
to illuminate figures passing by

words spill out, ricocheting in the deep,
from mouths that chatter with no sleep

lonely strangers walk dizzy to sight so poor
rain swept distant a shore

cigarette smoke like clouds to surf
it's lonely strangers that speckle the earth