She resided in smiles that were her strength
And wore love like protection
She spoke to heartbeats
In the language of dreams
Her eyes reached silences that dealt in prayers
She is whom poets borrow their words from

The sweet sound
Of a softly played harp
Caresses my ears
In the warm night breez
I hear the steps of an angel
That is all like a dream
In a fairy tale movie
Where love lasts endlessly
And the sound of the harp
Stops only to start again.

When I am awake
Where is the harp
Of the sweetest sound?
When I flash my eyes
Through the surroundings
Where is the angel gone?
It is just a strike through the heart
That the love is still not endless.

In the vehicle of imagination she travelled the world and beyond
And when life knocked her down
She rolled over and bathed in the light of the stars
She lived in a bubble
And breathed in a child like resilience
Unaware of the troubles she refused to believe in
Luck was embroidered into her back
Adventure became the wings
Her face a picture of naive innocence
She clapped when she was happy
To the tune of laughter
I always thought it was because
It made her feel alive by believing in herself
You know like Tinkerbell the fairy

Let me abandon my dreams for you.
It's not like they matter to me.
Goodbye Ivy League,
Goodbye law school.
I clearly have no need
for such things when
I have you.
It's not like my dreams
are the only thing
that keeps me alive.

I feel like I’m on fire.
Limbs shaking, fingers slick with guilt and anticipation.
I can’t continue to put myself through this, but I also understand that I can’t just leave you behind to your own devices.
It’s been seven years since I became your savior.
Seven years since I became your crutch.
Thirteen years old, losing hold on my innocence as you held on to me like I was your life source.
The only solid thing holding you down to the ground.

In some ways, I was happy to help you.
Days turned in to years, I felt my first taste of heart break, my first real taste of fear.
The strange exhilarating rush of childish intimacy wrapped in the hands of a meddling boy, and you stuck beside me, as mothers should.
I thank you for that.

I’ve been ****** dry.
Seven years of listening to you pull yourself apart.
Seven years of me growing deeper into being a self sufficient woman; sharing my secrets and my advice in hopes of pulling you closer.
In hopes of pulling you back to the surface.

Three years ago, you picked up the bottle.
Three years ago, you gave up on being a mother because you said that you didn’t know how to be.
Three years ago, you gave me the ohkay go to become an independent person.
Three years ago, you strapped chains to my core and began living vicariously through me and my stories, and I obliged.

I tried to save you.
I begged you to stop drinking.
I pleaded to you.
Please come back. Please be my mother again. Please help me, because I’m lost, and I don’t know how to come back.
But you didn’t know how to come back either, and I held on to your hands as you cried and told me that you were just as lost.

I’ve been spoiled.

Pleasures of the flesh dancing circles in my dreams, laying rose petals, supple and decadent in their beauty across memories of the feel of your skin. Smooth and distinctly human.

With hands like wandering explorers, curious and cautious as fingers danced across foreign flesh.

In the empty morning silence
your eyes reflect happiness upon a glaze of sleep deprivation.
Drowsy hands tapping beats upon worn jeans and the condensation fogged windows.
Why can’t I let go of that smile
the elbow creases and the fleshier bits of the forearm attached
to the human that I feel so desperately attached to
yet
unattached from.
Calm music battling shaking hands
and nerves like tightened knots.

My hands never felt so foreign as they do when I think that your eyes are on me.

We planned our futures,
After bloom of cherry trees,
  .  .  .  Petals fall in silence.

I'm afraid that there's
nothing left.
I'm afraid that meaning
is surely fading —
Dulled by absence.
A slow burning ember,
That was once an inferno.
This stage —
Once brimming with joy,
Holds now only silhouettes,
Ghosts.
Tender echoes.
Love letters returned,
Unread.
Counterfeit,
Plagiarised —
Empty.
This is how the world ends.
Without you.