Come with me
On a quest to the end
Of this chapter of my book.
Each page is ripped and wrinkled
Because sadness
Doesn't come with tissues.

The issues
Swirl around
In this snow storm.
You can hear it
When you're hair is my mouth
And your head
Lays on my heartbeat.
Can you feel it through the tissue?
My bones pop like fireworks
Dancing under the hope
That filled my lungs.
Hope couldn't float
On the ice crystals
That left this barricade
As I trek
Through this snow storm,

I wish this coffin
Would have room for one more
No not one more person,
Just the memories
That peer around
Every dream I am tortured with.

You see,
My mind is trying to find out
Why I took the plunge
And let you use my notes
On the test
On how to break my heart.

My eyes are dressed
In a nightmare black
So no one can see through them.
No one can see what you could.
The blinds are shut
And nobody is home
As I keep creaking around
This snow storm.

As two are one, and one is two
As one for two, through and through,
Can two be one, and one be true?
As one will end up staying blue

I gave my first love laughter,
I gave my second tears,
I gave my third love silence
Through all the years.

My first love gave me singing,
My second eyes to see,
But oh, it was my third love
Who gave my soul to me.

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

  They are terribly white:
     There is snow on the ground,
And a moon on the snow at night;
The sky is cut by the winter light;
Yet I, who have all these things in ken,                                
Am struck to the heart by the chiselled white
Of this handful of cyclamen

I love her with the seasons, with the winds,
As the stars worship, as anemones
Shudder in secret for the sun, as bees
Buzz round an open flower: in all kinds
My love is perfect, and in each she finds
Herself the goal: then why, intent to teaze
And rob her delicate spirit of its ease,
Hastes she to range me with inconstant minds?
If she should die, if I were left at large
On earth without her-I, on earth, the same
Quick mortal with a thousand cries, her spell
She fears would break. And I confront the charge
As sorrowing, and as careless of my fame
As Christ intact before the infidel.