Time keeps her moonlight
dripping, day after day
breaking, we reach toward
something beyond us:
We consider the lilies, the birds,

The trees budding promises into the air,
The breeze tasting of rainwater,  
The chalkdust collecting in our open palms
like childhood dreams, in our hearts.

Pulled forward from the shadows,
Fast, by the spotlight of spring.
We are understudy actors:
finally on the stage, but surprised
by the drama of split tea,  
rainkissed pauses, and almost burn
down the apartment.

All the while, the moon smiles thinly:
time-light in the sky, in our eyes.

We've a long distance yet to travel.
Our footsteps press into mud and freeze
toward the West, where we learned to be happy.
I gaze East into the unknown,
not quite deciding to be brave.
While you search heaven for a piece of your soul:
The skylark, ascending.

Once I saw an old tree
with a knot bulging in the bark,
so I tried to hack it off
with an axe,
to no avail.

The bark had been removed,
but no wood was shown,
only a tumor-like growth,
caused by a careless insect no doubt,
that realized it would not be a suitable home.

I showed my father the growth,
hoping he could save it,
cut out the bad,
so it would no longer plague the oak,
so it could be normal again.

He would not.
To do so would **** the tree.

I watched you dance around the floor
With beads of sweat dripping from your face
You had tears in your eyes
It was perfect, you were perfect

The place was packed with 800 people
All of you prancing with emotion
But i could only see their shadows
Because i couldn't get my eyes off of you

Every move you made was *******
You spun around, you arched your back
You stared across the room and into the spotlight
As if you were a slave seducing your master

You had your green shirt on
That hugged your body so well
And I blushed as i gazed at your perfection

The moment the music stopped playing
You looked up at me and smiled
You waved and you started to walk towards me
You were saying something but I couldn't hear you
I replied but I couldn't hear myself either
I didn't know what we were saying

I watched you walk away to join the second round of rehearsals

You were set to perform that evening, I couldn't wait
I could have watched you all day
I would see you up on stage and I'd be proud as others see how amazing you are

I doubt you know that I think you're perfect
And by perfect I mean beautifully flawed
You held my hand before but I never told you it made me wonder
If you did it because you wanted to or because it was cold

I planned to wear my white dress for you, the one with the lace and all
And I planned to hand you a bouquet of flowers, but not roses
Red tulips and yellow chrysanthemums, probably
Or better yet hydrangeas. I don't know.

I was hoping that after I slipped in my white dress
And after I bought you the flowers
And after you danced
And after they saw how amazing you are
And after I handed you the flowers
That maybe we can spend some time together and maybe you can hold my hand again
I hope it won't be cold so I wouldn't have to wonder, either
And maybe this time when you look at me, you wouldn't look away
But instead press your lips against mine

What I hoped for the most was that I wouldn't wake up
Because if I did, I'd have to dream this dream again till I get the ending I hoped for
I don't mind seeing you every night, having all this happen again
But I can't wait for the night when I'd find out how it ends

I think too much, this I have always known
for to live alone in solitude, one is blessed with thoughts as companions.

And perhaps this is optimal:
my thoughts do not mutter harsh words behind my back or even to my face
but comfort me in soothing tones like strokes
and sing-song verses that hug the walls of my mind pleasantly

My thoughts choose to show me beauty,
instead of the stark rawness of the world outside the frames of my head
they've conversed amongst themselves
of the sleek sheen of wetness on lemon leaves after a morning shower
or when they are most inspired,
of the smooth gradient of sky swathed by sunset
and allow me to watch it all, a front-row ticket to their splendid imaginings

Always, they will sigh contently at art and literature
and then feast wildly in the presence of knowledge
They accumulate bits of information like starving kittens,
so eager are they, I am left breathless

(There certainly are much worse points to them too,
but my thoughts threaten me so, in silence, I'll refrain.)

it was not ******, but slow
and built on itself over time
a little more sorrow each day
a little more pain to suffocate on
not too much, not so to be obvious

but it seems the soul is more of an abstract thing
that can be revived over time with the right words
and happenings
zombie-like but with much less gore
there are the first traces of joy instead.

I want to meet you all over again;
like it never happened that way in the first place.
Some alternate time and reality,
where logic didn't apply,
simply because we didn't need its boundaries anymore.
Then maybe
all those words and smoke,
and *** and coke,
could have just stayed choked down
and I wouldn't have to endure
these lonely thing's:
loyalty
and trustworthiness
and camaraderie.
Maybe then
in that place
at that time
something great could have happened,
and it all would have been left there.
Like all those wonderful dreams no one ever remembers having
and all those wonderful feelings and sensations
no one has felt, and so never will fiend for;
but then we wouldn't be here would we?
In this great silver lined grave
we have dug for ourselves
hoping some overlooked imperfection
could let us
just climb our way right back out
into the midst of the crowd
and insecurity,
or awareness.