Excuse me sir, but
"Heartbreak" isn't metaphor
It's physical pain.

I remember God on the family tree.

I know that you are lonely and I think we need to walk.
I keep wasting words about the weather and other small talk.
You gotta promise to keep pulsing just like the April rain.
Your lips are just flesh but they sure cover all the pain.

I walk beside you because you are my best friend.
We can walk through the park, hand in hand.
I'll keep you safe no matter where, until we reach our end.
I promise to love you past the trees,
but there's one thing I don't understand.

I can't see the harm in loving,
despite all that comes.
There were those that left before me,
but I'm not that one.

Your leaving is death,
but I still keep you alive.  
I wait for you, Kori,
and that's how I survive.

They say you never get over it, you just learn to tolerate.
I let cups of coffee stain my lips to remove your taste.  
I don't wanna think less of you; you can't be someone I hate.
I don't want you to disappear or for my love to go to waste.

I could die from anticipation just to **** the wait.
Until I see you again, my dreams will create
a way to visit you in my own personal paradise.
What it would be to hold you again as you shiver from the ice.

I'm not sure if anyone could love you more than I.
But I welcome them to do, or at least to try.
I want you to be loved. I want you to be happy.
I want you to be loved with or without me.

I want you to be loved.
I want you to be loved.
I want you to be loved
with or without me.

Why is the sky blue
When the earth is brown and grey
And black and so dark?

To feel like porcelain,
fragile and easy to break
is something I'm no stranger of

Now to feel like
stone,
solid and dense,
is something I know nothing of

But to feel like
oxygen,
impenetrable, flawless;
to be the air that fills your lungs
is all I aim to be

my writing seems to only come easily,
when i'm writing things i want to say to you,
but i can't.
right now i'm sitting here thinking about all the things from you
that get caught up in the thickets of my mind
like a nagging piece of a splinter that can't seem to get out of my palm.
the pain, although less than it would be if the whole splinter had stuck,
is still noticeable if i poke it, **** it, try to find it again,
pin point exactly where i have to press to make it hurt.
and once i've found that spot,
i keep pressing.
not because i like the way it feels,
but it's comforting, to know that i know what makes it hurt.
it's comforting, to know that it's still there, a constant reminder that the splinter was never fully removed.
it seems cliche,
to say that i miss you, but not who you are now.
i miss who you used to be.
the person who wrote me word by word, line by line, letter by letter,
their entire thought process..
where is she now?
gone.
i think about you,
and that letter you wrote.
"do deep people just conform the shallow way of thinking?"
you did.
did i?
i suppose that's something that we'll never know.
so it will keep nagging me,
bothering me,
like that small piece of splinter,
until i find away to get it out.
or until it gets infected and eventually kills me.
whichever comes first.