things go missing,
lost somewhere between
then and now.
and the rest is history,
and all that you can do is try
to outrun the rising tide.
oh, to be carried away,
to be buried in your own garden.
if you cling to the things
you can't change,
that's the first mistake.
but the rest is already swallowed,
swept by the rising tide.
things go missing,
lost somewhere between
you and i,
reshaping history,
rewriting time
all the time.

i am lost.
this emptiness can't be
all there is to it.
one's hope is just as fragile
as the proof of something better
awaiting once you're done
with getting stronger.
i don't know if i am strong enough yet.
i'm not sure if i've been through enough yet.
is my suffering too little
in comparison to others
who experienced more pain,
more grief, more loss, more desperation?
am i just a broken vessel
for someone's misplaced affection?
is this emptiness all that i can create?
if it's really all there's to it
i would rather know for sure
than be constantly misled
by a non-existent cause.
i am lost.

we carry our memories like they're a burden,
unspoken, but hopeful that someone, someday
might be brave enough to take a step forward
and share in that weight of invisible pain.
and all that we hold, like a prayer to the broken,
so lonely that silence falls down like a veil,
are hearts, torn and scarred, but bleeding no longer,
in hope that someone might accept them someday.

some of the best things we create
are meant for others to explore.
we grow too fast, we learn too late,
we leave before the curtain call.
and in the end all that we've made
turns into words, engraved in stone.
some of the best things we create
will only matter once we're gone.

i take my heart and put it in the ground,
i feed it ash, and dust, and desperation,
and everything's that still remains untouched
by hurricanes, and fires, and floods, and earthquakes
of what must be a lifetime's worth of heartbreaks;
i wouldn't know, i've already lost count.
i took my heart and put it in the ground.

the phenomenon of phantom pain
in limbs that aren't there anymore,
but still itch, still cramp and still ache;
just a memory of a memory, coming apart
with every impossible move that is made.
like a blind man, traversing through the dark,
feeling his way by touch, by sound, by smell
through the endlessly changing world,
guided by his memory, coming apart,
longing for things that aren't there anymore;
the phenomenon of a phantom heart.

i see visions of various
lives that were mine
in a different place,
at a different time.
and i hear conversations
with friends from elsewhere,
but they aren't here now,
so i wish i was there.
and i know it's just signs
of me losing my mind,
but it's such a small price
if they make me feel loved.
i can barely hold back
from letting it loose
to consume me completely,
since there ain't much to lose.
all i have is a dream
of not wanting to die
in a different place,
at a different time.