For every broken piece she’s got, she makes a paper crane to remind herself that bruises heal. And every day she makes 3 paper cranes, after making each one she shrugs her shoulder and smiles.
“Well that’s life” she says and falls asleep in her mediocre bed and her pillows tasting salty from her tears during her nightmares.
One morning she got up and realizes she has plenty of paper cranes living in her bedroom floor, in her sunflower kitchen, in her garden, in her beloved tub. There were so many that she couldn't count them off.
Then she placed her palms on her chest and realized she no longer has anything beating and then the world was never the same again.

How many pieces must have fallen from her heart?
How many left?

All those paper cranes were static but she needed answers. A lot of answers. She needed to hear why those pieces were torn and why she was severely suffering.

But no one came and whispered soothing things on her ears. The night fell and the moon was big and bright and cried because that was the only thing she could do. Her hands can barely make another paper crane to remind her that it was life.

The moon was wide and big and quiet but she felt that the silence was all she need and the moon became her refuge.

There was no one to save her but at least, something to turn to when loss is becoming unbearable.

You entered into my bloodstream just like the drug I was once so hooked on.
You said, “At least you can see your ghosts, mine prefer whispering things into my ears and never showing themselves.”
I laughed because what else was there to do. You smiled, too.
I told you never to be like me; never to act like one of the ghosts that hovered around and stifled you.
You said that every time you saw me then, you couldn’t help but see a blue light glowing around me.
You said I reminded you of hospital bathrooms and lies and imperfections. I reminded you of thin needles and punctured skin.
I was just glad we were finally getting somewhere, getting to know each other.
And I was glad you never asked why all my poems were written in the past tense, too.

You forget how to love her and she forgets what it’s like to feel like there’s enough oxygen in her lungs. Oddly spaced breaths and too much blinking – how can she even walk in a straight line these days? You’ll go right, knowing she’ll go left and you’ll lose sleep over it because what you think is best always turns out to be the worst mistake. And you promised her you’d stop trying to solve all your problems by drowning yourself in alcohol and in return she granted you the softness of her skin, the brightness of her smile. Without your drinks – you aren’t yourself. That’s what you tell her. She laughs and tells you she knows who you are, don't worry. And you don’t understand because you don’t even know who you are but you’ll believe just about anything if it means getting out of this and being able to hold on to her and her jasmine scent. She's just like spring; and where you live there's only ever two seasons.

A day, an hour, this moment.
Nothing is ever the same as it was, nothing will never be the same again.
As the wind blows through the trees, whistling gently, you are swaying with the energy of change.
Evolution is the ticking of time, the seconds as they rhythmically and faithful carry on, no matter what.
As the sun rises, a new day begins, as it sets, it leaves the promise of tomorrow laying softly on your pillow.
Your soul knows the song the world is singing, humming along quietly, even if you cannot hear.
I have seen your fear, but you have no reason to be afraid. You are a second of time that will keep on ticking. You are the wind in the trees, the sun on your pillow.
your soul knows.

Fear is a vine that beats down across my back, leaving uneven lines and parallel marks.
Is it always the prettiest flowers that become the most deadly? You’re poisonous to the touch.
All that calms me is all that fails to bring me happiness. Your jasmine scented perfume only reminds me of a love left unanswered; of a bird too scared to lift its wings and try out flight.
Maybe I would like the cold when I wake up, a thick shield of darkness to cover up and hide the person who I was never strong enough to be.
You’ll look me in the eyes when you tell me that it’s too hard to love me. Those oceans will be replaced with dull, empty ponds but you’ll mean every word, you’ll speak as if getting it off your chest will make the sun come back.