When I saw that the black had permeated
Every last vein, nail, and hair
and That it finally stopped to rest
Deep inside me, somewhere
I pulled out my best knife
and I rolled up my sleeves
Without thinking, I tore open the skin
and What I found wasn’t regret, but relief

I watched as one by one
They milled about and then out of the room
They stopped to peer inside the box
Before they left, they each caught
A glimpse of the beast that
Loomed underneath
No one dared to touch the thing
The oddity that had become me

So I guess they wouldn’t have known
I was harmless back then
I wasn’t a monster yet
I guess it doesn’t matter now
Like everything else, it’s water under the bridge

We live in a world of wrong typhoon forecast,
Where expectations are better than reality,
Of unfinished sentences,
In a world of that's-what-they-saids

We live in a world of black and white,
Of day and night, of sun and moon.
That someone will come with a paintbrush
and splatter the screaming colors into your world
That you are no longer living in that world
but in someone else's world.

Every part of you is magical
Your laugh is a trick that takes me to another planet
Your walk is a brick that made up my tiny little castle
And when you smile my heart runs for another mile

Every part of you is logical
Your heart beat harmonize the song in my mind
Your breathe just lives and lingers to my tiny atmosphere
And when you open your heart I know there's a missing part

I just wish I could fill in that tiny little space.

I never thought August is a month of drought
The flowers that you gave me died of thirst
I put them in a box beneath my bed to keep your love for me

I never thought August is a month of rain
Perhaps you're crying and washing away the pain
Raindrops don't seem like a music to my ears anymore.

I never thought August would be this cold
So I sip an earl grey tea and read all the handwritten notes that you gave me

Now I realize it wasn't August that is cold - it's me.

She's like a classic scene from a movie,
that will forever play on your head.
She's like a vinyl you'll always opt to,
for tunes to soothe the ache of your soul.
She's like your favorite book
that will always grace
the insipidity of your shelves.
She's your evening nostalgia
like a bedtime story
you'll never outgrow.

She's not supposed to stay with you,
and she didn't mean to anyway.
But some love just remain- unfading and still,
amidst the longest distance
this world can bestow,
amidst the most suffocating stretch
death can ever chastise.

It's true
that I hate you
every time
you do not call
but what
I hate more
is the idea
of forgetting,
and the relief of
moving on.