Carve into my bones
With your sharp words
And collect dust
That remains on your fingers
Seal it into a jar
And remember the dates
When I was under your skin
You asked:
is that my heart beating, or yours?
Of course my reply was *ours

i loved you without
asking first
and i am
so sorry
for
that.

sometimes i write lies
but mostly i write about you
and sometimes
i don't know the difference

She understood him
for what he was.

There he sat,
weary of
so much thinking
about the
complicated affairs
in life.

He really felt happy
only when
he was listening to music
or making music himself.

She was devoted to him,
but he was well aware
that this devotion
was not free.

i still
feel you
in my
ribs

where they bend
and (some
times)
break