some churches have bones,
and a graveyard for all the prayers
god didn't answer

You're still there,
At the end of my fingertips,
Your taste is still there teasing my tongue,
Your sweet face,
Haunts all my dreams,
Your beautiful heart still has its strings,
Wrapped around mine,
Tell me how to let you go,
When everything about you,
Is still living in my chest,
Crawling through the tunnels of my mind,
And leaving soft but painful bruises, on my soul

the sun doesn't shine in your world, and i wonder why. perhaps it's because you choose to write all your poems in the clouds.

i want to be the reason there is light inside your eyes again. the reason you worship the sunrise, instead of clinging red knuckled to the end of each dying day.