it's been so long,
by any chance do you remember me?*

your streets are still the same,
alive regardless the time of day
like everyone wants to keep the sun and moon company.
the avenues are still a grid—
i've memorized you like the lines on my palm
and understood you as a mystic would.
callcenter employees still line the uneven sidewalks,
you're still littered with their cigarettes and bottles.
construction workers still stand at the edge
of the industrial temples they build
as if they're kings of the city,
and your streetlights still stand tall
to guide every human being
as they find refuge in your little coffee shops and apartments.

no, nothing about you at all has changed,
at least through my eyes.

but my heart tells me otherwise.

something's missing—
it's the school girls i once knew
who went about these roads
searching for any kind of refuge
from the woes of growing up,
who trudged the streets in leather shoes
making you a home.
they're gone now,
off to farther places and newer cities,
but here i am as i return to you
and somehow i still feel them,
alive and well:
their beautiful voices and roaring laughter,
the dreams they built in you,
the moments that made our hearts leap as great as the heights
we are yet to reach,
it all echoes through your alleyways.
and i'll never forget them—these distant friends and pretty souls—
the way i love your streets filled with our memories.

the prophets and all the grownups were right
when they said that 17 was a beautiful age.
it is the age of falling in love,
when we are still young enough to hang onto a thread
but old enough to know better.
17 is being on the verge of entering
into the dreaded age of responsibility,
but wanting something more
than what this youth permits.
17 is a transitional time,
when the heart may know not its place
but what it beats for.
17 is a strange time
of learning and growing and being,
and i suppose we will all always be
who we were at seventeen.

there's an undying storm in my heart
it grows so tall
it reaches my throat
and chokes me
stealing my speech
and brewing rainfall
that pours in the form of tears
from my eyes
it twists and turns
to knot my stomach
enough to stop me from smiling
it screams in thunderstorms
so deafening they fill my head
like thoughts i'd rather not have—
there's no way of stopping it
but to wait and take cover
to hide and hold on
to every corner, every string
only to survive

but storms eventually calm
and reach landfall
my heart sees the horizon overhead
when the skies are clear
and i think to myself:  
still, the good days rise,
still the good days rise.

step into the shower
maybe this water will wash the pain away
like the rain would do for me and you
in the month of may

in this light i'll shed some skin
and leave behind words unsaid
maybe if i had done things right you'd be here
on the empty side of this bed

i'm sorry i thought i could be captain
of this ship we built for two
i thought that love was all we'd need
that dreams alone would do

maybe if i pray hard enough
i could forget everything and start anew
i'd erase all these things i've done
but never these memories of you

now who's dreaming beside you, love?
it used to be us two
we can't save each other from nightmares anymore
so now all i dream of is you

honest boy
your words are written in the sky
whenever you love
it's cross the heart, hope to die

look at you darling
silly boy, bright mind
always speaking in rhythm and rhyme
everyone listens, you're one of a kind

always the muse,
sadness obscured under lights when you shine
(does it get lonely?)
i only hope your heart always soars, too,
the same way you make mine

the tides are turning
the seasons are changing
you have carried weight on your shoulders
far too heavy for anyone so young
and the world is spinning
like windmills in the sky
or the arrows of the compass in your hand

but never fret
you are never on your own
when the sky watches over you
and the clouds walk above you
the moon is in awe of your stories
and the sun comes out every morning
to shine on you
the breeze sings a song
for your ears only

and you are never on your own
when the world itself is alive
inside of you.

how could all these masters
of art and vision
of poetry and of prose
of love and of passion
of life and of death
create so seamlessly,
create things that matter to others?
how could they have ideas
streaming from their minds,
and translated into beautiful things
that need not ask to be noticed?
i'd like to think it was because
they worked with heart
but why is it that even if my heart is screams
with all the things i want to share
i try to paint
i try to sketch
to write
to sing little songs
they never come out quite right
or matter to anyone else?
why is it that my heart
with all its storms and whirlwinds
never seems to be enough
to create something beautiful?