there is a story here.
i don't know if i can call it Love,
the two of us discovered Her a long time ago.
now, capsized boats
washed up on the shore
unsure what to do with all the baggage we still carry
from the heart we previously sought refuge in.
we walk close to the ocean
leaving footprints in the sand
and watching them disappear with every wave.
you reach out your hand for me
and i hold it,
desperate for something to anchor me to the Earth.
i can feel it moving beneath me,
and i’m not ready.
you press a kiss into the back of my palm.
a tear falls down your cheek.
we help one another patch the holes in our boats
with shared laughter and endless dreaming.
you let me sleep on your chest at night,
as we watch the sun fall behind the horizon.
i don’t know if i can call it Love,
but i’m starting to remember why we floated so far from the shore
in the first place.
i’m starting to remember what it means to feel comfortable in silence,
to listen to someone’s heartbeat
and be reminded that there is a life outside your own
that just wants to be held for a little while longer.
i press a kiss into your forehead
and let a laugh escape
as my eyes fill with tears.
you’re looking at me
with eyes so deep
a soul so loud.
there is a story here,
on this shipwreck island
of a boy and a girl
who aren't sure what to call this,
who have been hurt by Love before
and are afraid to drown again.
but still,
they float messages in old glass bottles across the sea
speak through tin can telephones
send paper airplanes over the distance between them
hoping that one day they will meet again
with something more to offer
than an unfinished story.

Sometimes I wander to my broken heart, though,
I whisper the names which used to make it sing,
I take it out to the Ocean
And cast a line out to find the missing pieces
But what I told you, the truth is,
I wouldn't want them back
Because then I'd miss this,
These fishing trips.

Mister psychopath
I can see through your facade,
faking innocence.

You want to hurt me,
tear me apart limb by limb,
to bathe in my blood.

to make me suffer,
it would make you laugh once more.
stay away from me!

Mister treachery,
you're a wolf in sheep's clothing,
you're not who you seem.

manipulating,
only using charm and wit?
that won't work again.

I'll overthrow you,
because you're no longer king!
I, the queen, mean war.

I could have held onto you,
and I should have.
But I was worried,
no, worried isn't the word,
I was petrified.
Petrified that you would want me gone,
like a dog wants rid of its fleas.
I felt just like that flea, the itch on your back;
all you needed were the correct drops and I would die off.
So I replaced you before you could replace me.

Someone passed me by wearing the same cologne you once did,
and it got me thinking...

Maybe you never wanted me gone at all.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
The hour where naught is awake but
Lovers and dreamers
And those deemed too far gone by the rest of us;
To which we send a wilting flower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Here I mourn the loss of life
When I took a sterile sword to my own heart
And peered into the gaping, gaping void
Dissolving away the ghost that haunts my hollow tower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
I mourn the incursion that initiated it
Mourn a life I have known so well
As well as a life I think I shall not meet
Tied, side by side, in a waking melancholy sour.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Doves less mournful than I have passed on to sleep
And he is, as I dream, forming faster each day
Only now, in death, so dear to me
And I reach out, into the darkness of the night
And end the mourning hour.

I think I may search
Every passing face for yours
Until my last breath

I want to scream
Until this emotional ache goes away
I want to yell your name
And have you tell me everything is okay
But I know that won't happen
Because she's with you