We will be strangers with a memory
A powerful memory
Just... not powerful enough
And I guess that's okay
Because life is unfair
The worst thing is, though,
That we made it that way
And that's a fault we have to live in

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

I don't know why I still care
Why I think about it all over again

I loved him, I know, but that's no excuse
There's no point in this, there's no use

But I guess everyone moves on at their own pace
So be patient with yourself, this is not a race

Oh my sweet misery,
No point in fighting you,
You will start again
I'm human indeed
Still feeling her skin on my fingertips
She is only in the wind
Scent of punk rock, grunge and cigarettes remain
I wander alone on the subway, to forget her
Trying to forget her intoxicating scent
I want to get away, everything to start again,
Oh my sweet misery

I tasted a bit of love ... with her,
Like a drop of honey, thick and sweet.
Do not ask me to dance again,
Never without her.
In this vast city, I'm invisible
And then ... here you come again, sweet misery!