Lonely, like the ancient ocean
flooding fast upon the sand

past a fading line of footprints,
ankle deep in surf she stands

casting wishes on the water
like a sprinkling of snow,

light they land but moments after,
melt into the waves, and go..

Like the bulls in every existing china shop,
we danced clumsily past midnight.

The soles of our feet sticking
to the hardwood floor of my living room,
twirling, dizzy--
in hopes that if our souls learned how to tango,
minute hands would cease
to spin.

It was holy bliss.
It was the sweat shop
factory of affection.
Our bodies-- luminous in the
palest moonlight, a passerby
might have believed
we were angels.

Even now, as we sit
in the midst of silent tension,
furrowed brows of frustration
with no words left to promenade
out of our jaded bodies,

I watch your chest rise and fall
to the hostile melody of our
fruitless accusations, each breath
a reminder of our dance.

Your soul is still liquid music to my ears.
And as long as it continues to play,
I will stay, the hem of my dress floating in motionless air--
waiting for midnight
to intertwine our silhouettes.

Skeletal cinnamon trees
Frosted with the breaking, grey sky
Know more love than you
And they know more life than I

Flowing as white as the snow
With the one that she loves by her side
She'll regret this day again
When she has nowhere to hide

And I'll sit and watch them freeze
And my fingers will go numb
In the coldness of their timing
Knowing I should be the one

there was no past
to remember,
and forget,
there is no future,
to long for,
and wait,
there is no present,
to consider,
and let go,
there is nothing
to honestly think about
anymore,

yet when you walk past,
my eyes wonder,
did you hear my desire
in the sigh of breath
that left my lips
and make their way
to yours

you make no sense,
but you are fire
and I've been cold
for far too long.

Words could be a dangerous thing.
Once they are said, they can’t be forgotten.
But what’s more even dangerous is the idea of ‘you’
Once, you felt home but soon became storm.

Love stories could be a wonderful thing.
Once they are read, they can fascinate us.
But our story wasn’t perfect as everyone would expect,
It narrates how you put me into dark abyss of loneliness.

Songs could be a powerful magic.
Once they are heard, they give meaning to everything.
Yet our song consists of sad melody and unsaid words,
It is pleasant until it drowns you.

And like a photograph that captures everything,
That is supposed to be kept on your pocket.
But our photograph isn’t worth to keep
I’d rather let it carried by flood along with your memories.