The gold, velvet curtains
allow the sun to slip through,
contrasting the flat, make-shift fabric
that used to shield these rays.

Light dances on the fresh paint,
that clings to the sad, bare sheetrock
you shamelessly had on display.

With brushstrokes askew,
and a lively orange hue,
we tried to mask the dents–
remnant of her past rage.

We covered those scars
with our framed memories
and sentimental assets,
now side by side and entwined,
weaving our worlds into one.

This newfound atmosphere
clears the congestion in my chest,
and rejuvenates our spirits,
injecting a freshness
we thirstily absorb.

We're granted a reset,
for we’ve painted vibrance
onto a clean slate.

You romanticize the past like the bad days were good
The times that haunt me are your glory days
As if there was a trophy for how much harm you could inflict
You say you’ve changed but are worse than ever
Trying to pretend your facades are clever
When your daughter asks “when is daddy coming home,” what do I tell her?
See, the difference between us
Isn’t a competition but rather a tragedy
There’s more to the equation than simply you + me
The empty home of what was a family
Scars, echos, and chipped teeth
The difference between us
Is that the distance between us
Has made me stronger
And you weak

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could

I love his sound
the sound of his guitar,
plugged in and ringing after him.
I love the sound of his finger plucking the strings,
bouncing off and vibrating.
I love all instruments,
all kinds of genres and songs,
but my favorite song is the one where his guitar plays.

indian tuberose
on a watery path
its a bright midnight
for you and i

moving shadows
on the ceiling wall
our fingers dance
in the pouring light

i like blue
like that of a frozen lake
pale as a snowflake
your aftertaste

i like citrine
your sleepy brown eyes
iridescent
just before sunrise

i like to watch
the mighty sun fall
ending it all
my eight legged window
captures it all

black rain
octopus sky
we stay inside
do things we like

Craving sunlight
The kind thats not quite right
The kind you'd fight to have
But instead cuts you into two halves

If my melodramatic teenage angst phase
Could be more than a cliché phrase
Would I paraphrase instead of ode
Light candles on the streets I rode

Where have you gone, words?
She vanished like vapour;
No longer lingers like a whisper from my perception, but she girds
Them. She used to pour out endlessly,
flowing like a babbling brook.
Now, dry, like the earth before conception. 
Parched, she sits desolately,
Crying out Spirit fill anew!