you're the perfect beat in the song
together, you're knotted with a perfect memory
you're a could have, should have,
you're a wish and a dream
and to trace my fingertips across your skin
feels like heaven and bliss running through me
head to toe, and sometimes at a breaking point
but I'm not even sure if my words mean anything
because we can spend all night, all day, all year
talking. laughing. fighting.
we can spend forever in ecstasy, thinking it'll never end
I will still have my doubts
because you're a couldn't have, shouldn't have
just a wish and another goodbye

felt strong and weak
like a paradoxical spirit
walking between the lines of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a skyscraper
among all the other concrete mountains
blending in, sticking out
windows open, blinds shut
walls untouched by rain, but
the water still falls in through the gaping frames
and onto the floor
seeping into the surface in patterns of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a city among many
like one among thousands
like the only one with my mind cut open
like the only one thinking
real thoughts

my real thoughts
have not yet been made material
are they still real?
yes they are or no they're not

all i'm really looking for
is an answer

heartstrings are stretching
words etching weakness into the veins
that spin round the surface of what might be my soul
and the doubt casts bruises upon the changing weather
that threatens to break through
and sever the strings altogether

i don’t need my heartstrings, do i?
i don’t need to be tied down to some feeling
that keeps fading and sparking and blazing
and blinding my eyes to the strength i am losing
i don’t need to be tethered to any safe words
or to careful phrasing of a feeling
that has no meaning without an answer
and yet is never a question

and i’m tired of phrasing it like a question, waiting
for a response to validate my crooked, fearful thoughts
waiting for a yes or a no or even just
maybe
coupled with a smile
and some **** good explanation for why i’m being left hanging
on my own stupidity, time and time again
as i read too much into nothing
and nothing into everything
and i become someone other than myself, ignoring
the way i used to work, always standing by
until someone else went first

i’m tired of going first
tired of waiting in line, tired of buying tickets
to  my own show
tired of being early
tired of running behind
just tired, really

i’m tired of myself, and of the way i deal
with all this, letting myself give in to honesty
and then stitching myself up on the way home
with cold air and a hard swallow of the words
that i regret saying

i’m tired of regretting everything
come springtime, i don’t want to regret winter
stretched heartstrings melting across bare branches
as i am swallowed by the leaves
and an airplane takes me home across three time zones
where i can just forget the whole thing

Imagination, it is my greatest weapon.
As well as books, because I can escape
in the pages of another universe if even
for a little while.

sometimes
i read my own writing
and wonder what it's like to know me

hoping the words will open a window
let the clean air in
so i can climb through the frame
inspect the damage, avoid
the broken glass
turn on the lights

wishing the words would be more straightforward
yes and no
black and white
this is how you feel
deal with it

well, i feel done with dealing with it
in monochrome, shades of grey
stealing away the colours
of a cartoon landscape
i think that this would be easier dealt with
if i could see it all through stained glass
diamond-shaped panes
breaking up the scene, shattering
the illusions unseen
and through rose-coloured glasses
black and white become so much more obvious
to my strained, searching eyes

sometimes
i read my own simple, twisted writing
and i wonder what it's like to know me
not the words, not the straight lines
that curve around my soul
but the soft ones
that make up my body, that protect
my smile and my eyes
and the ones that lead gently down to my hands
twisting around each other
in some dance
that attempts to hide the constant urge
to write out my disbelief in the existence
of myself

yes and no
still escape me
but i keep finding shards of stained glass
like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest
picking them up from the damp sidewalk
discovering them cutting into an open palm
and i take them, then accept the offered hand
looking off into the sunset
through the bright blue and blood-red
of sharp reality

sometimes
i find the words
before they find me