you know it's happening again
when sad songs form their own memories
when paper and pen create revered pieces from shattered ones;
tears fusing with words,
letting you break free from tight bounded ropes masked as euphoria;
the dark recesses overflowing with raw melancholy, tearstained shirts, and forlorn tunes.

you know it's happening again
when your chest feels like an empty cavern
stretching upward, beyond –
reaching the darkest pits of the cave
with the single noise a sigh resounding
from its lips high above and far away,
reminding me of yours
where it can't be reached, can't be touched
with my fingers,
with my own.

many a time it has happened before
but my dear, my sweet,
how many times have you heard this yet still remains unheard:
you must get used to it.