The air burns where I sleep;
you trudge in almost-snow.

The resetting of alarm clocks
let the wind slip
through your dreamcatcher.

And my sunset is all
the colours of your fall.

I write a poem;
you will awaken six hours
and countless miles later

in the cold
while I burn.

The ink lies between
the segments of the universe;
unreachable,
incomprehensible

in the fire
while you shiver.

What is it to miss
someone?
I do not know.

I miss the myth that is you.
The mist of your window.
The wind of your breeze.
The motion of your ocean.
Infatuated with you like an infectious diseases.  I need you to breathe. A ride on your waves gives me my second wind. your sight alone is all I need. I am your fein.

Ayer is the Spanish word for yesterday

I am his *ayer
His tomorrow I’ll never be
All the days have been stolen away
By an unyielding melody

I am his ayer
He’s the only air I breathe
The smell of lilies gone
Polluted by my disease

I am his ayer
He is my Aries
I can’t live without his fire
My heart he still carries

Everyone is quiet,
Papers rustle,
The slow speed fan
Creaks above our heads,
The air conditioning
Is broken,
We start to sweat
From sunlight coming in
Through the tintless windows.
Exhausted,
We sit in silence,
Unwilling to share
Information.
Miserable in this heat,
Someone drops their pen.
As he picks it up
The room sighs,
Almost as if in relief
That he retrieved it,
While no one else moves.
It's far too hot for that.
The table smells like mothballs,
And the people around me
Smell like sweat,
Perfume and cologne.
You can smell the coffee
Oozing from their pores.
Bloodshot eyes,
Aching backs,
And all-consuming stress.
I'm in class.

Winter was coming, cold, cold
His coat was full of bullettholes
The sky was transparent like ice
He pulled the trigger with madness in his eyes

The wind was blowing, wild, wild
Every warm body stayed inside
A freezing blizzard had begun
A blizzard of bullets from machine guns

Winter was coming, cold, cold
The house was full of bullettholes
She held his hand as he closed his eyes
Just another bullet, another life

The wind was blowing, wild, wild
The snow covered those who died
They pretended no one died in vain
Pulled the trigger to **** again

Winter was coming, cold, cold
Their hearts were full of bulletsholes
History repeated as no rules applied
Only hatred reached the other side

The wind was blowing, wild, wild
The shots echoing in the air outside
Why cant we ever comprehend
That nothing is solved with the blood of fallen men

We love what we think we do.
We say what we shouldn't.
We do what's never been done, and we sit with the same outcome.
We're a point less than the actual point.
We're a lot of nothing, cause we loved something that wasn't us.
Our time is less from out last timeless moment.
Every moment apart calls for a new start.
On a board we're the dart that misses the the bulls eye, but we never miss a chance to make our eyes cry.
We're like an ocean with no tide, never moving but always waving good bye to each other before we even see each other.
We're Space to our lungs cause we're in a space where there isn't air, so we fight each other for our last breaths, not realizing that the only air we're fighting is the one we had.
The one before the space we entered.
Cause we centered our air in each others hearts so we'd touch hearts, like we need to and not like we have to, and we'd touch lightly cause of the importance our hearts hold, not just to each other, but to our lungs..
Cause I can't breathe when your heart is apart from mine.
So, my heart won't beat apart from yours cause your touch carries the very essence that keeps my heart going.