let me tell you the story of the girl who laced cigarettes with the taste of coffee the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics and the guy who knew nothing of the sort
she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists and broke silence with unessential questions she wore her wounds in a tight braid and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book she described her mind as retired from all the wars she has won and lost she exclaims sighs of relief and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism
on the other side of the universe, however
there exists the personification of oblivion he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice and words misunderstood by his own kind he returns to his world for temporary release of what he is still unsure of and yet he is certain of the presence of sadness he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise a promise of better days to come he has gone from mountain to mountain in hopes of a brighter view of the sun but amidst all his travels, he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames
and so, he appears to be void of reason of worth of a sense of purpose of plans of the future
and maybe this is where the story ends.
with both their hands shaking from an overdose with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves with the unspoken truths and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown with curses of similarities and vows of their difference with her, believing she already knows too much and with him, thinking she is yet to know more
or maybe I was wrong.
because maybe, just maybe,
this is where the story begins.
maybe we'll remain nothing but strangers to each other and maybe that's okay.