You were rebellion,
you were fire and guns,
shouts of uncontrolled chaos.
You were violence.
I was peace,
I was quiet and small,
music in a still room.
I was calm.
Together,
we were sneak attacks,
we were freedom and justice,
and the laughs of those
who are finally victorious.
We were success.
And we built the world
from ashes.

If the sun
fell from the sky
and burned the whole world,
would it be my fault?
If the moon
spun away, dancing in
some distant galaxy,
would it be my fault?
If I told you
I have eyes only for you,
would it be your fault?

I had a dream last night,
and you were there.
I couldn't remember
anyone
or anything.
In a world of things,
that can only be summed up as
"alien,"
you were
*familiar.

In a world of
black and white,
you were colour.
In a world
without sound,
you were music.
You were everything.
You were
all these things to me,
and I don't know
what
I was to you.

You have given me
all these promises,
full of false hopes.
Promises full of
the future
and what it could bring.
Promises
about you and me.
But in the end,
promises are just words.

It's like he's the Sun and she's the Moon.
He's bright and perfect and
every friend he's ever had probably couldn't live without him.
He's Mr. Charisma
and he's always warm.

She's quieter and a little less harsh.
She's clumsy,
because she's always spinning.
She has few people who'd die
if she didn't exist.

And they dance circles around eachother.
They flash smiles and faces across the universe
and across galaxies like classrooms.
The other stars and planets look on and wonder
Why aren't they together?
Every once in a while,
they'll hug, because
they only can every once in a while.
They're so close.

But the Sun has his eyes
on a pretty little number in the next
galaxy over.
And she likes to tease him.
The moon is stuck here,
still spinning, feeding
off of whatever light he
gives her,
trying desperately to magnify it.

Sometimes,
words hit like bolts
of yellow and blue lightning.
Erupting from their
bottled container,
spattering bits of
charred glass
and gore of the
words that have been contained for far too long.
Reckless in their nonconformity
with what is expected,
what is,
and what needs
to be said.
When they spill
out of painted or chapped lips
like liquid fire.
Fire and lightning
that burns and singes
and electrifies
everything they touch.
Almost as painful
as the real thing.