love is like a broken thread
beads of water rolling off
a once beautiful band ruined
ripped to nothing like before
never a chance to hold back
to rewind the past written
carved into every droplet
falling off our cheekbones

Unhappiness washes over me,
in a terrible wave of overwhelming agony
I can see it
Even taste it
Hear it in the toneless voices spoken
Smell it on the clothing worn by the undetected broken ones  
I feel alone in knowing this
Our whole life you have built for us
Is slowly crumbling into rubble dusted with regret,
strewn among a barren land of twisted memories
Our story is coming to an end
Yet some of us try to hold on
Grasp on to every last bit of positive feeling
that is given by the words off her lips
Hugging tighter
Looking to gain a trusty allie
But before we end
We must realize that
Wherever our story may finish
We will start new ones
And build two shining cities
Among the rubble
Where happiness can be spotted between them
Even though, they no longer are identified as one

Our souls were
        Heavy with

        Silence, on the night we parted.
        At least, they were to our ringing ears.
        Yet everyone could hear it but us, it seems.
        
        That sad melody of our hopes and our fears,
        Heard from miles and years
        Away... of sad romances and softly whispered dreams
        That our hearts told us could never be... They were right, it seems.

        You won't remember my face.
        Only echoes of my skin; like a portrait
        Under a portrait, painted over in every empty space
        ...
        Like so many failed paintings;
        Like so many failed...

        My hands won't even allow me to write.
        Isn't that
        Sick?So... Don't ask me to write any more. I won't ask you to
        Sing

        More. I'll write no further
        Eulogies for our failed sonata. Here's the coda. There's the door.
        ????   Isn't it funny? That we couldn't hear that sound before?
We were singing such beautiful songs, but they were
      Melodies that the singers couldn't hear. Isn't that the definition of ironic?
      And... Though I couldn't hear our last symphony, I would
      Dare say that could my ears have divined that melody...
      Every note had to be perfect. As if the composer of that song had designed it

To be sung in a duet....

I was just a wildflower growing on the side of the road,
Ignored and observing,
Growing
until rain drowned me,
winds picked me up,
I dropped myself into a wandering state,
Splitting into the sky.

I am now pieces of pollen,
just specks in the air,
flying without a single care
Though I am scattered,
I am free.