How does the astronaut feel,
after having sat countless nights in solitude,
staring up at the off-black sky,
and falling in love with the stars;
How does he feel when he approaches
for the first time the grandeur of a planet in space?
Can you imagine?
Every impossible thought taking shape?
Tangible; in his eyes, in his very reach.
My fingers won't stop trembling,
Please don't take it away.

There is fake silver that hangs upon my chest,
and in time it will chip away.
Silver, sliver by sliver,
until it's nothing.
But for now it protects me, and brings mental peace.

I'm drawing from the small things.
I steal the life to feed my starving words,
so as not to write with poison,
so as not to taint blameless paper.
I'm drawing from the small things.

There are red roses in my room, on black wood,
and when the sunlight filters slightly,
well it's the most beautiful sight.
And in time the petals will shrivel and fall.
But for now, I smile -
and it seems to be enough.

I'm falling in love with the small things,
tremendous in my eyes, tremendous at my fingertips.

When she laughs, my mind clears,
if only for a second, but I'm grateful for the life she offers me,
unknowingly.

And I didn't realize my arms had enough strength
or were even worthy to hold the world;
my world.
They tremble, and I'm afraid they'll give out.
But I cannot deny that I'm in love with the life I hold close.

I feed off of the small, tremendous instances.
They redeem my thoughts, thus my words.
For the sake of peace of mind, and inkflow.

If beginning wasn't so difficult,
I'd start with your heart.
With my head pressed against your chest,
from the very beginning,
I trust it -
it and it's racing rhythm.
I think perhaps only half of what I hear is your own.
Because half of it is mine,
as I hear the blood rushing through my ear.

If middles didn't need to be so complex,
I'd elaborate; gently.
The simple truth is that my heart doesn't even deserve yours.
Mine is cold, and closed, and controlled.
"Love who I say to love."
But yours is open, and patient, and loving,
and I learn from it, as it slowly thaws my own.

If endings didn't hurt,
I'd like to say your heart is the end of me.
I think your heart compells me to love more freely,
for mine beats a different and new beat;
it beats for you.
And I believe I could love your heart,
until the day my own gives out.

My mother and my sister used to tell me
that going to sleep crying
would only result in nightmares.
But the tears would keep on falling
from my little brown eyes.
So one of them would sit on my bed
and hold me in their arms,
against their chest,
while stroking my hair.
They'd shush away my fears,
my sadness, my anger,
until good dreams were guaranteed.
I need someone right now,
to hold me in their arms,
accept my tears against their chest,
stroke my hair,
and shush away my fears.
I'm terrified of the nightmares.

"I'm beautiful."
If I write these words
enough times on this fragile skin,
maybe it will sink low enough
into my veins
and *become me.
My bloodstream can carry the message farther
than I'll ever be able to.

Do you hear the silent screams?
Buried within the ink?
The covers bound my cries,
but the pages let them go.
Do you see what I'm saying...?

Do you read these as only words?
Do you understand why I write?
Do you know who I am?

Have you seen what I've seen?
Felt what I've felt?
Loved who I've loved?
Are these just words to you...?

Read again.
Look deeper.
*You'll understand.

the absence of you,
is the absence
of the well-known me.