You are like a deep breath
After spending years gasping for air
You are the brightest of days
After weathering months of storms
You are peace after a seemingly never ending war

But you’re not the air I breathe
I can do that on my own
But how nice is it to know that your breath can be synonymous with my own
To know this is ours to share

Chipped or ***** or dying
and you can't look past it.
What's special about new? Or is it
that it is
unused?
How much beauty
can you see
in damage?
In use?
I'd like to believe you see worth
in the imperfections
of me.
But what do I know
of your soul, really? And who is to say
you will leave me in any better shape
anyway...
All I can do is hope.

Just there.
Not sitting.
Not standing.
Not laying down.
So then what?
Nothing.
Dust.
Brushed away.
No.
That’s not what does the harm.
Without a thought.
That is the root of the pain.
Once brushed away, gone forever.
No one will remember.
No one will care.
Nothing.
Dust.

Trading life for death isn't the countermeasure for strife! As it is very "politely" too say that life mocks the complete scenario of death itself. However, if you actually started to take a little closer look at ourselves in general... You'd come to say that our very lives, aren't so different when death essentially claims them. Only when it is time for our lives to become entirely subjected upon deaths desire to appoint life to crumble at deaths very feet. Life in deaths very comparison for an opposite comparison, is seeing that it's nothing but "dust at one's very toes". But when life is about to crumble and seemingly turn into a crumbling dustless ash... It see's itself (for the very first time ever) plead too death in such a way as if it's begging at it's very, well...feet! Revealing it's form of crumbling dustless ash, even before it's become aware of that very state. As all life ever wanted (after coming to the final point in it's very supposed fluid ride of existence) was to hope for a nice ending! Until finding out that death wasn't so merciful!

if morning thoughts be dust of dreams,
i amble about until
Evening,
with its spinster gown,
lays waste to all the hope of day.

Of dust both stars and we are born and so to all will each return.
But in between, dust gives a heart a need for loves' enduring yearn.
In times' course on cosmic scale all particles are drawn to another one.
And so stars and love set adrift, until once more, all but dust is gone.