Loves grow.  
Some like redwood trees,
Some like strands of grass.
Yet, the sun of
Touch and caring
Is welcomed with open leaves;
Petals unfolding in acceptance
And gratitude.

Loves grow.
Raging waterfalls of infatuation
Become deep, quiet ponds; even
Strong rivers of current
Union.
Your hands on my face used to
Give me shivers and goosebumps,
Now they warm me from
Skin to spine.
From bark to the innermost
Heart of the wood.

Loves grow.
Trees share branches over time;
Merge.
Centuries or seconds,
From afar enough
Even years tick tock when passing.
I'll count them with you,
Not caring for numbers as much
As movement.

Loves grow.
Roots and flowers,
Fruits from dirt.
One from more.
Your hands on my face are
Mine on yours, and our growth is
The opposite of the
Packing-up of things
And leaving.

The road behind bares us a backdrop, too many nights find us fractured in our thoughts and the dreamers we once were are far from the two people who stand today.

We're broken, mere splinters of our shipwreck past, driftwood on a shore that drowns every time the ocean breathes.
The path is littered with slaughtered dreams that didn't bleed.

As time and tide wait for no man shall we find it a tragic scene?
simply erased with the sunsets demise?
No one gets away without a scar and mine speak a road map to chaos
and a found hello to you.

Mine own scars are fingertips
gouged into the sand and faded
but salted by tears of the ocean, inerasable by the tide.
A soul washed up upon the shore, a road map etched delicately into fine bones.
You can trace where I'd been before. All roads lead to your hello.

In broken lines and have uttered phrases and one too many empty night.
Backdrop of chaos does paint in the darkest colors you could ever imagine .

How does it gets so flawed by our own creations and vices my dear?
Does it still ring ever so true?

The bell rings true whispering distant voices
Empty nights are just bottles lined up as dead soldiers
We contemplated our own truths and fell victim to our own vices
The backdrop is black, no colour beneath skin.
Honestly? Where does our downfall begin?

Two ships underneath the nightscape past the spark once understood the flame and nothing more .
In empty alleys, like cats to prowl, we find our moments, and then bury our thoughts to lay for no others to see.

half written papers and half heard conversation the keys of the piano haunt the silence as myself shadows that still remain.

Nothing is but a thought and those are like dead flowers laid to waste a reflection of far better times

The night crawls to meet the day as it has so many times before.

The thought of the minds bottle lay empty upon the table.
A fond farewell is but a sugar coated goodbye.
And I seldom have minced my words to mask their sting.

The page forever bleeds.

Pages that lay scattered on a ***** floor
Bleeding ink into cracks
that will forever more
hide the spirit of our souls