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I will tell you all the stuff I told the last one
You'll get to hear all of my mess

Plus one more she didn't know:
I'll break a chair if you meet someone new
Then I'll write a hundred poems about you

If you can accept that now,
Maybe you can be my girl
I woke up to a mouthful of ash again
because you let that pack of cigarettes burn
all night long and I forgot to
blow out the candles and
you're holding my wrist so tight that
we're both on the verge of cracking
but I know I know you're just holding on
so maybe I'll swim even though all I
want to do is sink, even though you're
the one with the anchors around your neck
I'm sorry your spine is bent
but you're still keeping me upright
I'm sorry you're lost and I threw away
the map I'm sorry I can't glue the world
back together for both of us
I'm sorry I wake up most mornings
unable to breathe
 Dec 2014 melina padron
 Dec 2014 melina padron
I could write that your coat was black; and they would think I meant dark as night.

They would probably analyze the complexity of your coat, but to me it was the simple sky.

Because even with the darkness of hidden secrets, the pockets were blue, and you were my light.
I hardly think of you now;
It's incredible.
I lived and breathed you,
Swallowed your words like chocolate,
But now you're just a small stain
Hidden in the folds
Of some old bed sheets
I never use anymore.
I am denied a second time
a catching glimpse
a passerby
the endless chantering that flows through the rye
until I catch a glimpse of the other side
through your eyes
we go together

a floundering heat
an upheld beat
that swims in midst of rays
to reflect upon your gleaming eye
holding a gaze, time says lasts for days

yet it already happened
a rewound record instilling its tunes
into you
and oh!
you're already gone
refilling these city blues
guess I wasn't ready for you
oh, this generation of use and abuse
to take as material , to ignore the core
denying the message, but focusing on the tune

I guess I really am you
Ego thoughts, twin flame
Box pasta boils
on the 1950 stove
and I wonder why
I haven't written
in a while
Maybe tomorrow
I can cry
about something
Is it really a healthy outlet,
Or does it cause me
to dwell on my pain?

Will I still want to write
if I become a healthy person?

I guess it would be okay if I don't;
I don't like writing enough
to stay this miserable

Maybe some day
I won't like the idea of her enough
to stay this miserable
 Dec 2014 melina padron
Goodnight, the fire burns brightly
Goodnight, you kiss my forehead lightly
Almost paternally now
- We were lovers

Goodnight, clinging to the sheets by your side
Goodnight, heartache in this house tonight
Someday we will forget
- We were lovers

This distance will turn my blood cold
A grave look on a pale face of youth
If I could shrink the ocean to be close
Would you save me anymore
Love became an ugly truth

Goodnight, the fire burns brightly
Goodnight, I held on to the moment tightly
Almost in retrospect
- We were lovers
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