I saw her walking through the dew on the grass.
Sometimes the morning comes way too fast.
But never the nights when I sit thinking of you.
They last a lifetime so cold and blue.
I guess you realize what you've got when it's gone.
When she's walking out across the dew on the lawn.
That's when a fire starts to burn within.
It keeps building now it's scorching the skin.
When we fight I feel as though I just can't win.
Which leads to long nights spending all of my cash.
Thinking about her in the dew on the grass.
These hard times are when I needed you the most.
But you're with him walking along the coast.
Trying to shake these Blues of our past.
Wondering just how long it will last. While I'm looking for her in the dew on the grass.

shapeless longing, lingering perfume,
remnants of your wet sleeve,
where are you?
distant match-figures hiking
along the ***** of the mountain;
a row of diligent ants, circling
the crimson rose bud —
sweet sorrow is the dew nestled
within the blooming petals —
grow, wither, and fall —
forgotten.

The life of the dew

In the morning

On the flowers, beautiful it looks

To the human eye

To condense and collect

To drop as a dewdrop

To holdback, it knows not

On this earth, it lets go

In the morning hours upon the grass

As there is sunlight up the sky

Beautiful, the life of a dewdrop

Love is reckless, not brave,
Love is selfish and selfless all in one,
Love is faithful, stupid, kind,
Love is all the simple things, but rewind

And love is pain, confusion,
Love is a battle won but a soul lost,
Love is a storm, the pelting rain like stones
Love is the plunging distance between the sky and the ocean.

Love is the touch of skin on skin,
Smiles and laughter at the end of the day,
Crackling bonfires and whispers of secrets,
The smell and texture of her hair.

Love is the sound of bullets firing,
Love is the feeling of dirt between toes,
Love is the groggy bewilderment of morning,
Love is the walk down a hill washed with dew.

Love is being late to all meals, except for dessert,
Love is passing plates around, clinking silverware,
Love is the scrape of chairs and static of noises,
Love is the shape of his eyes when he glances around.

Love is the smell of the air after the rain,
Love is the droplets running down his face,
Love is the pen brushing across the paper,
Love is the bunk beds and sleeping bags and chatter.

Love is the sky, the river, the mountain, and the meadow,
Love is the flashlights’ light and the stars brighter,
Love is the loneliness in the field of the empty night,
Love is the loose circle of young and old.

Love is lullabies at night, crevices of her face,
Love is the sound of soft rain against the roof,
Love is the breeze blowing through the open window,
Love is teasing and joking and breathless joy.

Love is a warm feeling in the chest,
An intertwining of fingers, a touch to the hair,
Love is a braid coming undone gradually,
Love is a heart that is beating endlessly.