These days,
they aren't the same
not without your smile
held to such acclaim
These nights,
they aren't the same
not without your warmth
burning like a flame
And this season,
it never felt so cold
never quite the same
without you to here hold

I'm the white crayon
The third wheel
The odd ball out
I'm the one who has to walk behind when the side walk gets to thin
And I'm the least important friend

The fish, like people, swimming in sync.
All swimming around a tank disguised as magic- a world pretending to be beautiful.
The only difference is the sense of indifferent certainty.
The fish completely accept how small they are in the myriad of birth, death and evolution.
We are doomed to question.
I feel that they are accepting of futility rather than ignorant of it, as believed by most.
The sharks are the most magnificent, they have power to destroy yet they live through peace- that is the most beautiful phenomenon of all.
Most of us, all of them, seem unbothered by this perpetual routine.
My eyes begin to mirror the contents of the salty tank, filling with magical mystery.
He echoed my thoughts. The boy I am completely inlove with kissed me under a sky of turtles and whispering kelp.
That moment exists with the few that convince me there is more than an ancient, repetitive cycle.
He is alive with me. Believes that I am more than the half-life I am doomed to live. Always my first love to have awakened my belief in grace, my craving to live in the unconquerable light.
Teal glow, shark shadows and moon-cold kisses.

I left one day, when I thought that I was an alien.
The brief pilgrimage to the sky, I have spent passing through Dover Beach and the Wasteland.
Barely a life in technicolour, a half-unconquerable soul.
The popular nothings dance, eyes so dark within their sockets. The sun looks soporific on their shoulder blades, to the point that we can’t convince ourselves we’re still the same.
I wish you could see the veins of earth, pumping beneath the waves. It’s a story I long to write for you- curious but not yet brave. Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth, I am too afraid to disturb the universe.  
One day we’ll all be stories that get told, told incorrectly. My tale will grow old, so I leave.