I think of you in the same second
as i think of old benches, rain clouds
and French kissing in thunder storms.

I never framed your name with hearts,
or wrote it in pink swirly letters, 'cause
somehow you're worth more than that.

(you always lived in the present,
so that's where you truly belong,
and though you never gave me an
”iloveyou”, I'll give you a chance)

My memories of you and I belong
to silent talks in the middle of the night,
about the way your skin looks pale compared to mine
(and they belong to the sound of
racing heartbeats and sweet sighs.)

They belong to the way you don't need
something as simple as words, to tell me
you care (your eyes told me that secret eternities ago)

There's just something about the way
you can't keep yourself from touching me,
even it's just tickling my shoulder
or tracing my lips with an index finger.

I never understood how you do what you do,
but you make life seem simple and
you make us seem to be
pieces in a perfect puzzle.

I think of you quite a lot, you see,
you've sort of invaded my world
I know I told myself not to get in too deep,

but I never wanted anyone
as badly ever before.

So, please darling,
keep whispering sweet words in my ear,
I don't even care if they're lies anymore,
I just want happiness, (I want you)
and some day, you'll see why.

dear john,

how are you?
[i wonder, 'cause i'm getting
crazier for every second
i feel your heart wrenching absence-
i think of you constantly -
it'd help to know you're all right?]

do you ever think of me?
['cause i don't think you
do so anymore. you stopped
responding to my letters weeks ago,
and i refuse to
believe they got
lost in the mail.

i simply refuse.]

does the sun burn your skin?
[i hope the summer gives you
eczema and scalded cheeks.
i hope it hurts so much you
can't sleep at night from the pain.
then you can use the gained
hours of awake to read to this letter]

dear john,
do you think we should give up on us?
**['cause i think i did months ago.]

it's not about the
way you look at me at
three am in the morning
or the fact that
idon'tthinkyouloveme,
('causeiknowyoudo)

it's more the whole
im-not-sure-who-i-am-anymore and
i-need-you-to-tell-me-the-right-answer.

it's that sometimes,
just once in a while
i'd like for you to tell me that
you need me a wee bit
(i know it's against your
i-need-noone-'cause-i-don't-care-about
anyone-more-than-they­-care-about-me philosophy,
but could you, just once in a while,
tell me what i need to hear?)
I know honesty's the best policy
and all that sort of
over-estimated crap

but once in a while
i'd like for you to lie

the gunshots sound pitilessly
leaving nothing in their aftermath
but his void roar
and the ground,
glowing with the redness
of his dead brother's blood

he's wounded too, but
he does not expect saving
or medical care
(nor does he want it)

i watch him from afar
as he falls;
with his knees on the bombtrodden street
(one that resembles one he once called his home,
but he has no home now,
only blood, and
violence) and
he gives in to death the moment he sees me

[they taught us not to look the enemy in the eye,
but a second before I pull the trigger, I break the
holiest of rules, and I see a soul just as lost as mine]