Hear my words,
Hear my cries,
Let me tell you,
The secret of the night.
We beings of the underworld,
We beings of the night,
Did what has never been done,
Asked for what has never been asked,
Our inspiration is fire,
Our passion is to ****,
We are the hunters,
You are the preys,
We hunt for you in the depth of the night,
This is our secret,
The secret of the night.

I can be too selfish sometimes
I wanted to steal all the beautiful things
in the world and keep them for myself

*But the sun was too hot,
the sea drowned me,
the wind couldn't be contained,
And love was too big to fit in my pocket.

She took my hand and followed me
through the trees,
under the archway made of ivy
(flanked by pristinely carved hedges)
into the vast, open field
which met the ethereal red sun
on the horizon.

We sat in the fresh grass,
cool in the evening air.
All the while we stayed silent,
just admiring the untouched space.
Each blade of grass before us
swayed gently,
tantalisingly...

Time had stopped
but everything was still living.
Still moving.
As if this place were not included
in Time's perseverance.  
I didn't want it to be,
it was too important to me.

It occurred to me then
that it wasn't this place
that I valued the most at all
It was this moment.

And I captured it.

You stole my heart,
So I stole a kiss
And just for a second
I might barely miss
The stubble on your cheek
And the touch that
Made me so weak
You came into my life
With no notice at all
No fanfare or bells
Went off when you called
But little by little
You broke into my heart
And now it’s a shame
I didn't fall from the start
I had no idea
I’d be the one that you’d choose
Nor did I know
I’d be the one that would lose
But still today
I would pay that price
Just for the chance
To just kiss you twice
The first for the nerves
When I’d try to be brave
And the second to remember---
It’s the kiss I would save
I’d keep in my heart
Where I’d never forget
The look in your eyes
And that last sunset

and sometimes i need to tell myself
to stop being so literal

if i can learn
to write words,
like Picasso
created art

beautiful and abstract

then they will become mine
and theirs

a story
deciphered in a million different ways

: I'd rather be in the middle of
nowhere
with you

than be on the edge of
everything
with anyone else.