I guess I didn't consider enough the lilies in the blood.
Nor did I ever question the sun above,
til the sun burnt out, and part of that lily died.
There was never enough rain, and even the sparrows tried.
And all too late I realized the roots were in the heart,
and though some flowers bloomed late,
they were growing from the start.
Lilies toil, lilies spin, and on the swing we’ll meet again.
Through eyes full of mercy and a heart full of love,
lilies can never be considered enough.

I can’t draw but I've sketched your name into my heart. It’s as clear as the melancholy in Van Gogh’s self portrait though you’re the only audience I need.

I don’t know if I’d really call it hope.
It’s a thought.
Growing
like a bacteria in a confined cupboard
no one opens, for fear
of asbestos poisoning.
The thought that I will one day talk to you again. 
 Maybe a long way from now.
But being able to see you,
and hold your hand,
and ask you things.
Perhaps even hear you say
that it’s okay.
And you understand, you know?
Maybe that is hope.
I don’t think it’s exactly wishful thinking,
because that’s something that’s done
if a realistic expectation had potential
to be met
but god
maybe you’re just a rotting body
shoved into the cavity of the Earth,
stowed away
out of sight
just like this one
maybe-hopeful-wishful-thinking-thought.

You were sleeping when I left. You told me to wake you up, but I already did when I slowly backed out of our entangled embrace and kissed you until your eyes fluttered open. You sleepily grinned, squinting against the dim light that was fighting to reflect off of your walls. I kissed you again and unsteadily got to my feet. I covered you up as you rolled back onto your side, facing me with your eyes shut and your breathing steadily getting deeper. I put my shirt, socks, shoes on. Coat zipped and purse slung around shoulder. I knelt down next to you and kissed your cheek again..and again..and again. I stopped. I waited. I wanted to tell you that I love you, but I knew you would hear me.

Night time, when we were dancing to a cacophony  accompanied by the distinct voice of Frank Sinatra, the rapping of my high heels across a wooden floor as you spun me around, an intoxicated giggle and slurred “I love yous” and I did love you, the person you were in that moment, as we unsteadily held each other. The yellow lights and your sandy hair and the bitter wine and the city alive, but our singular hearts beating in unison for once made me feel the way I thought I was supposed to and it was beautiful and we were beautiful in that
moment
In time.
That moment in time where you cried because there were 52 things that I loved about you, clearly displayed,and I thought for a moment that you might get it, that you might change but, not surprisingly, to my dismay you went back to your ways and my sock fell off again.

I am a lion.
I am brave.
I am strong.
I have my pride,
I've carried on.

I am a lion.
My roar is a cry.
My glance is intimidating.
My life full of leaps and strides.

I am a lion.
I am scared.
I am weak.
I can't swallow my pride,
how can I go on?

I am a lion.
Do you remember seeing me cry?
I can never meet your stare.
I will be crawling until I die.

I'm in a snow globe that you're always shaking.
Look at the glass.
I think it's breaking.

The snow settles around me like my heart in my chest,
As I realize I failed, though I tried my best.

Sometimes I hope my snow globe falls,
so my world comes crashing to an end.

Other time I wish the glass would break,
and I'll be free.
So i won't have to strive for you to be proud of me.

But for now, I'm content
in my cold, dim dome.
When will I please you,
or make you proud?

Who really knows?