If I were air, I’d be the wind on your face as you try to get away on your bike.
Caressing the curvature from your cheekbones to your chin.

If I were brightness, I’d be the flame from your lighter.
Here to light your cigarettes and candles.

If I were clothing, I’d be your t-shirt.
Listening to you inhale defeat and exhale content.

If I were the darkness, I’d be your shadow.
Ever present during the day and holding you at night.

If I were a mystery, I’d be the ocean
You could discover my depth.

If I were a beat, I’d be the ticking of your wristwatch.
A reminder each second that time progresses.

If I were words, I’d arrange myself into a book.
A story to keep you company in the winter.

If I were a spirit, I’d be a ghost.
Silently witnessing how you live.

If I were an addiction, I’d be your last cigarette.
You’d desire to get more of my flavor.

If I were hopefulness, I’d be your ambitions.
In hope that you’d find me buried somewhere in your dreams.

If I were a body part, I’d be your fingernails.
Close to your lips when you become anxious.

If I were a color, I’d be red.
Living within your veins.

But I am not.
You put your hand up to block the wind.
You only strike my flame for a moment, and then put me out.
All I hear are empty sighs
And you’ve become afraid of what is in the darkness.
You’ve learned swim to shore, to escape my vastness
And my loud ticking at night drives you insane.
You’ve read me to boredom.
I feel your presence, but you feel none of mine.
You’ve smoked too much and can’t feel the high anymore,
And you do not dream any more. You only have nightmares.
Your nails are now bitten to the bone.
And you’ve bled yourself dry.

If one day I shall die from the pain of longing,
I know this love was worth-suffering.

And I won't regret counting days, as long as I could count them for You.
I won't regret making plans, as long as they lead me to the places where I could find myself in your everlasting arms.

a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.

"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."

the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.

"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."

the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.

"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."

"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.

"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."

"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."

"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.