I trace the memories kept behind like fingerprints.
The love we had is now crushed and swept away by a wave of  
our indolence and insanity.
I go back to the time of sadness,
Because it was the sadness of her eyes the made me
happy
happy
happy
and somewhat sane…

All I have left are the mental photographs of what happened
and of wanting what could have been. I leave now with all the
things that I traced—things that can never be erased
like fingerprints that never  
ever had changed.
I sit here alone in this disease-ridden couch, with my
disease-ridden hope. And I will memorize your eyes,
blinking to the rhythm of you heartbeat, dancing in a starlit daydream—as  
I am wishing of a memory where you gave me  
everything you had
and where I offered you the pieces that were left
of me.

I kept all memories of you in a heart-shaped box,
where it is slowly crumbling as time goes by.
I kept all your secrets,
your playbook,
your cards,
your broken cassettes and cigarettes
our now and always,
your sad eyes and the happiness you had
and which made me smile again.

So maybe fingerprints and memories share a common thing. They say  
that “good things happen to those who wait”, I’d say keep on waiting,
*******, I have been waiting, and still all I’ve traced is  
the measurements of my  
indolence and insanity. So yeah, keep on waiting.

It is not just the way that you move, much more or less the way in which you  
dress. The caliber of your presentation: it has no scope, no measurable standpoints.—
For you are a poem with feet, and at one point God called you a star.  

But you are a song, who is gently prancing melodies that cure my maladies. And  
I want no one else to hear you when you sing. Because I want to be the only one
who listens…listening until the day my bones run dry and no flesh, no carcass  
is left of me. And vultures shall feast upon my cruel skin, shivering in the dark rays  
of night, leaning over the crevices of my teeth. My teeth, the size of piano keys.

You stick to me, and **** the life out of me like a silky, black ******* leech. And I  
love you too much, and you, perhaps too little. Giving you each and every inch of my purple heart; still not being enough. And still when you speak: it is with outstanding
purpose and resolve. You spoke of love, even when love did not exist. As all  
eyes look towards you, and all ears lend their time to you too. As if you were a
magnet that connects two distinguishing charges: grace and charm.

Your wicked ways will be what I will die falling in love with. For every time I  
breathe slowly, and calmly, and every step I take, it is with confidence. I am not
a broken machine, living in this mechanical planet:  

I will eternally, faithfully, and all of me will rise to you whenever you shall
move
dress
sing
**** me off
speak…or…  
whenever you shall too love me, just enough.

There will come a day where instead of lovers chasing cars,
people with love will be climbing comets.
And where the light of the stars is not enough
to make the night full--where no limit is far past the moon.

A day will come when somebody adds a new letter to the alphabet.
And where loving is no longer harder than
having no love at all.
And the only way for the world to change is if
the day and the night,
the sun and the moon,
the good and the evil,
the right and the wrong,
the love and the hate, and
everything else: both looked and recognized each other.

There will come a day where rain is soft like
the falling of flower pedals.
The day will come where all light is vanished, and
with the light of candles it will be the wavering wind who will decide
to put out its flames.

And maybe that day is here, now, right here--finding it was never
that easy.

Like young lovers—where too much talking shortens the romance
and where it too was never worth the risk to say goodbye.
The fire no longer burns the same but I still want to
hear what your eyes scream.

And my problem is that loneliness and I are best friends;
when I go outside it is with
the birds,
the clouds,
the chalk within this pavement
where I have my own cheap conversations.

We can pass through the days like a series of jump-cuts
and nothing between us changes,
and we lay together as victims of this dark road,
listening to the trickling of rainfall down our windows
coming into our world where we no longer live in.