Sometimes,
perfect timing
is more important
than a perfect match.

somewhere in the dark
she found his heart,
lying among the others in the storm
bleeding but beating

she took it in her hands,
carefully wrapped it up,
and sheltered it
in the safest place she knew

the next morning she set to work,
stitching the wounded pieces
until his heart was strong again
it beat hard and happy now,
but it was useless without its body

she set out on her journey to find him,
the black clouds rolled in,
she dodged trees blown over by wind,
she dodged flashes of lighting that
appeared just before her eyes

she was just about to save him
when she felt a famililiar pain in her chest
it felt as though a knife was stabbing her
in and out, in and out, in and out
she felt the blood pour from her heart
into her chest
and she fell for the first time
in a long time

she looked over to find him lying on the ground
and whispered her apologies
because one mended heart has a will to repair another
but a broken heart is useless in the darkness

He was a boy with beautiful eyes
and an appreciation for colorful socks and generic tea.

A boy that played the drums and went to festivals.
The kind of festivals that left him longing for a proper shower
and his mother's pork belly stew.

He dyed his hair a fitting shade of black
And though he was underwhelmed by the idea of anything romantic
his use of smiley emoticons was enough to make up for it.

He taught me the importance of learning to appreciate cheap wine
and the power of using compliments sparingly.

He was the kind of boy that would be fun to spoon,
or so I assume
because I've never met him.

The dim morning light
Shone on her body
He admired her perfection

Her legs were thrown carelessly
Above the covers
They seemed to never end

Her hair spread about
Forming a halo of silk
Around her head

Her body leaned toward him
And seemed to sigh
In time with his bliss

Her fingers, long and thin
Were as beautiful as hands could be
And they were his

Her eyes, closed to the world
Were just as beautiful
As the soul they contained

Her arms reached to him
With her bare wrists showing
And on one was tattooed "remember"


He would never forget.

Here I stand.
My mortal soul naked and imperfect
My weathered hand stained with the guilt of a human life.
I have nothing.
Nothing to my name but the worth of my words.

I offer you not the stars or the moon.
Not a passion that incurs fame,
Not stability, nor safety.

I offer you the colour and whirlwind of my soul.
In all its grotesque beauty,
In all its untamed rhythm.

Here I stand.
A vulnerable creature
A plagued creature.
I have nothing.
Nothing but the warmth of my soul.

The adults think it's funny how we hunch over some device
that taught us how to forget communication.
The arbitrariness of a phrase folded into gray area
leads to an unexpressed panic.
A child is born in a nearby hospital
and welcomed by four by five inches of folded paper
and a car crash down the street pulls a life and we frown.
We never open our mouths
but lower or raise the corners accordingly
to generate some symbolic expression.