tremble, tremble
love is a word stuck in my throat
and your name is sitting on top of my lungs

three and a half minutes are never enough
duration of frustrated screams
i can't believe you didn't know
about truth slipping between my lips

crumple, crumple
love is a word that's only written
and your name is the title of my journal

i've had the same question for days,
and i most definitely am not gonna ask you
this was always about myself
you're gonna scream you never knew
but the only thing worse than not knowing
is you thinking that i don't know.

maybe,
loving you was a reflex
and you never broke me
it always took just a second
for me to crumble down in your hands.

maybe it was never your hands after all.

buzz, buzz, buzz
did i ever love you
or were you an escape?
did i ever love you
or were your name just drops of ink
i needed to fill this crumpled journal.

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

so, you decided to go
you gave me your keys
told me to lock the doors
i said "just ring the bell when you come back"

you turned on the car
as i did the tv
didn't think the show would be so loud
but it drowned the sound of you leaving

after some days,
i realized tv shows aren't my favorite waste of time
and you didn't go
to come home

lips dry
hands trembling
and it's all still
u n s a i d

there is always something left after every long journey
maybe on a bus or a restaurant seat
or maybe at a place where you didn't even see me
and what's left was something you couldn't notice

there is always something lost after every  long journey
that makes the ride home anxious and strange
full of drunken bag-checks and rummagings
and what's lost was something I couldn't  get rid of

there's something that we lose after we leave our long journey
and it's not going to be at the lost-and-found

there's no powerpoint presentation or a pocket guide nor a three inch-thick hardcover book for falling in love.
there's no rain with more oxygen than hydrogen that keeps the fire alive.
there will never be an elder who fully understands the oh-and-ah's of your young naivety.
there will be painful memories attached to your most loved songs.

this is life. you'll fall, get up, fall again, fail to get up. the lights will go out. you will get lost. you will feel the pain of being left.
this is the time when you pack up your tears and painkillers.
you will be you.
because that is life,
and this is love.