I determine to die loved.
Even if it is only
by myself.

I have written three ******* books about you,
and all you ever gave me,
was a half finished song
and a broken heart.

I don't fear heights anymore
Because I realize
I'm already falling.
Head first, arms outstretched,
Fingers achingly awaiting
The softness of your skin.
You have me in some strange place--
Where I'm among the stars
Yet stomach caught in free fall,
Head spinning
Yet eyes clearly seeing you,
Warmed by your arms
Yet shaking from your touch.
Down
        Down
                Down
                   ­      We go,
Yet we don't worry about the bottom.
As long as I have you now,
For this very second,
I don't care if I'm taken tonight.

You see we are not forever.
We are walking, talking, floating, Pieces of temporary.
Who will pretty soon fade away into dust…
That's why I don't try to get attached to much.
Because everything that comes,
Must eventually go.
Except for your aura,
And soul.
Temporary forevers.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.