They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”

If - why bother -
Then why bother wasting
anymore precious moments
of a life so short
with misery or
pathetic self-pity?
Why not cast off
the shackles of
depression
and allow the light
of life to shine?
Stop the self-indulgent tears
(so much easier said than done!)
and try to face unblinking
the true beauty
that is
life.

I saw you sitting in your kitchen
Dead, but lingering in your own absence
You were younger
Grazing your hands against the apple place mats
Your nails a pale purple, beautiful and no longer crooked
You were no longer in pain
Your hands would glide through the air
Without the look of hurt I used to see in your eyes
Each time you moved a finger
The friction of your joints
Burning, and hindering movement

I watched him fixing the picture frames
Folding blankets on the back of your favorite chair
His body ancient and crippling,
His mind stained and imprinted
His soul lonely, lacking something
But his faith notices your faint linger
The smell of you still trapped in the couch cushions
Your presence everlasting in this home
He passes you, sitting at the table
With your gentle hands
And for the first time in weeks
He smiles.

An imperfect being.
A shy and shameful creature.
A scarred body,
a flawed body.
She grows her hair long
so that he won’t see the scars on her back,
so that he will not count the marks,
ghastly adornments from her worldly experience
too disgraceful to be called badges of honor-
so he will not see the imperfection.
A naked body,
a chubby body,
a dishonored body,
fit only to be obedient.
Wanting of love,
but not deserving,
not receiving.
All she can do is submit
and hope that he won’t look.

The oppressive winter, a fierce warlord
revels in his victory over the summer,
forcing all that was once living
to bear the heavy burden
of his frost,
confiscating our colors,
giving us only ice as payment.

However, in some obscure corner of this land,
Mother Nature hides,
waiting to restore our hues, our animation-
cowering, shrouded in secret.
Somewhere, she waits anxiously,
plump with child,
to bring us what we crave so terribly:
Spring.
Somehow, she is certain that
Spring will restore someone’s lost joy.

Now it is just a matter of time.

It's a must, we need to talk,
Can you get into it now?
Your work, you're neglecting it,
Can you get into it now?,

The pain, the hurt you're feeling today,
Can you get over it now?,
This springtime walk, that hedge row,
Can you get over it now?

Little trixybells balloon, she's four now,
Can you blow it up now?
That ticking bomb inside your head,
It's holding you back,
Can you blow it up now??
Please, for me?