I've tried rewriting him like he is another poem
embedded between pages of secrets
replacing his eyes with sparkling adjectives
polishing his edges
enabling him to roll off my tongue like I imagined he would
I've traded his scars for words laced in silver
like beautiful words would stop the bleeding
but broken men are not poems
they are not to be sculpted into stanzas
they are time bombs
with three seconds left on the clock
they posses oceans inside their lungs
their eyes are riptides
you cannot rewrite the parts of him
to coincide with the parts of you
they may be broken
their hearts turning black and blue
but the solution to their problem does not begin with you
you can stretch your hands as big as they will go
but it will never be enough to catch their pain
you will drown trying to keep them afloat
the solution to their problem does not begin with you
It will never begin with you

Her eyes stare out
Into emptily brimming space
At the lives that run before her
Almost touching, seeming to reach out  
But never crossing paths
Oblivious to her presence

She sits, surrrounded by surreality
By the irony of her twisted fate
To be so close to human touch,
to the relief of shared laughter and tears
And still, trapped in a tomb of solitude

Unmoved by a smile that sneaks
Across her face as a stranger smiles back
For such is transient, never to be realized
As a bigger part, of eternity

Slowly, gently, tendrils of her being
Creep toward another soul
Cautiously approach, then close around
Only to be severed
Ousted by a stronger spirit

And then she saw, a glimmer of light
That closed in on her, swallowed her whole
And she lived in the rays of starlight
For a time

Twice, in four hundreds of days
The lambency would engulf her
With the clemency of company
And then shut her in darkness

And now she stays, alone in a crowd
The silence is deafening
As her heart screams out
For the starlight to touch
Her hand once again