Don't look at the chest.
She won't be impressed.
Don't look at the hips.
She knows she has them.

But look at the eyes.
They tell you more.
Just don't look at the chest.
Cause she's not impress.

A woman knows her physical self.
And what impress her pursuers.
But when speaking to her in person.
Just don't look at the chest.

While you're talking.
She taking notes.
Just eliminating those she consider a total joke.

Even if you is that type.
You must have a different approach.
You must comprehend the things she like.

But remember one true advice.
Just don't look at the chest.

We know the first body measurements starts there.
But unless you're bold.
It's dangerous to go there.

Yes, look at the eyes.
And notice the color.
And you might just stand a chance.
If you just don't look at the chest.

Compliment her with kindness of words.
Even, how lovely her legs are?
Maybe, ever her hands.
But avoid that certain part that might leave you boken hearted.

We are the broken pieces of the stars,
Scattered fragments from celestial memoirs.
In the cosmic dance, we were once whole,
Now stardust scattered, an eternal stroll.

From galaxies far away, we found our way,
To this earthly abode, where mortals stray.
Each atom within us, a shimmering light,
A cosmic legacy, an astronomical flight.

The universe within, a celestial choir,
Our essence echoes, reaching higher and higher.
We carry within us the cosmos' embrace,
In our brokenness, an intricate grace.

The supernovas' remnants in our soul's decree,
Whispers of cosmos in you and me.
Each fracture a story, each scar a spark,
A cosmic connection within the dark.

Though shattered, we're luminescent art,
A canvas of constellations in every heart.
From galaxies torn, we found our place,
We are the broken pieces of cosmic grace.

So let us embrace our celestial scars,
For we are the remnants of the stars.
In our fragmented beauty, we shall find,
A universe within, infinitely designed.

Here you are
*******

water ways
you reached the gate

but broken strings
and boken wings
left no coins upon your eyes.

Oh I'm sure you're not
to blame.
I'm sure you'll say
you're not to blame.

Can holes break
like hearts
or are you just
the waves
swerving
moving
claiming mysteries of
the moon
but predictable
in patterns
with fits
not far apart;
your spill fills
holes
but do they break
like hearts?

Or are you here
to pull him down
sailors sail but
sailors also drown.

You feel so low
so you pull them down.

No rest for the wicked, so
no rest for the rest

I know you say
you tried your best

But even the river
moves on
in the end.

Sucker hole
stuck at the gate.
Now unpaid
blank eyes
always.


The cost of the world you alienate
is now you're gone;
just wakes of hate.
no one cares to pay
your toll.

No rest for the wicked, so
no rest for the rest

I know you say
you tried your best

But even the river
moves on
in the end.

Even the river moves
on.

Sitting in the space made by her leaving, I'm far from comfy, but no-where-near lonely.

Cooking for one is far from easy and it's easier to succumb to the micro-wavable and the processed in a process that suggests sadness, but in essence is a life past survival and a start of a moving on.

Leaning on past memories for a more reliable sense of self, I walk back beyond the years of this boken partnership.

These years from the off were tainted with discomfort while threaded with laughter and it's the laughter I now follow to earlier layers that might form the start of a fresher, better fitting wardrobe and a comfort that is more than this - sitting in this space of her leaving.

More than this, I'm sure.