It was legendary, it was momentary, it was unnecessary, should've let it stay buried.

The writer in the dark can't get far away from the paper, the lover in solitude can't get much further from the pain, the coldness in the air can't wait to cherish the red on your cheeks and remind you of the cracks forming in your heart. These waves reach out to the furthest lengths and highest heights each night for the moon, but the moon waits for the sun still. The passenger becomes one with the train, watching the world go by, watching a life pass by in a blink. I'm glistening in the light but I'm terrified—of the incomplete to consume me, of the darkness to embrace me and for the unknown half of my thoughts to sting me to death. You're like a wound on my skin I can't bring myself to stitch up, muffling my hisses as I rub on salt and call it a healing journey. Am I finding comfort in my blues now? Am I searching for my solace in your neglectful eyes now? Am I looking for my missing limbs somewhere along your leaving trace? The ethereal creature with the softest gaze, the howling monk of the heartbreak mountains, the one with the subtle cruelty of river currents– hey you, with the sweetest breaths of desire; you owe me my old soul.

The tidal melody of clarity hits me across the face, over and over, and I apologize each time. What is love if not violence? What is violence if not love gone rotten? The madwoman is at it again, dancing alone in the halls of faith forgotten, of memories faded, of papers on fire, while she sings a lonely tune in the palace—once upon a December.
If a year comes and goes and a heart still weighs less than a sigh then what is all this blood supposed to bleed for? If the creator begs to be believed then who does the artwork belong to? What a lovely life: such graceful hands always empty, such red lips screaming for an answer, such polished shoes walking straight to dead ends each time.
I will lie on the cold solid ground and dissolve into oblivion. I wouldn't care to be remembered. I will stop wanting. I will leave with a penny and become one with the snow shower—translucent and melting.

Will I ever be anything other than a sad song?

I ask myself time and time again; could there be color found in the deepest depths of gray? I see your face in the small bubbles of my drink and that's when I believe in luminescence. I call out to the maple leaves and underground roots that I've lost my mind and I'm a strutting fool but there's no softer whisper than the waving branches smiling at me. Sweet music's playing somewhere out of my reach but I can feel its vibration through my veins. The piano man says to cool it down, try not to let the walls cave in and I do. I put both hands on the glass and pray the faithless pray for all my losses to return to me in the shape of two eyes that hold me with the firmness of the ocean. I place my feet on the ground and hope to find myself in the middle of the spiral, to be able to catch the motion and stop time for a moment, to savour the parts of you I've missed. To witness the intensity of the crimson moon and the feet that dance a rehearsed waltz under it, all crammed into a snow globe put absentmindedly on a mantelpiece. Could fire bring purity or should we find peace in its destruction? I used to have all the answers but now I'm just a soul standing on the edge of the mountain, watching the city below and longing for the people living in it.

Poetry leaves my system and laughter comes along when I'm with you—cause you don't bring out the pain in me, you bring out the human.

Will I ever be able to capture intricate moments between my clasped fingers or am I prone to a lifelong race of chasing after trains passing? How am I supposed to leave when the smallest things bring me to my knees? How am I supposed to take my heart out of its cage and throw it into another prison? The questions I ask are never enough to satisfy the famished soul, neither are they good to keep.. forever feels like betting on the losing horses and love seems like the dust that makes my eyes water as chaos ensues. They keep telling me what's mine will find its way back to me but what if I've been erased from the map, what if my flesh and bones are just an illusion of what the passerby call a girl; the in-between, the semi-conscious, the forever interrupted. What if I've already dug my grave, one slip and I'll spend the rest of days underground? I love you and why should I be afraid to say it? I want to combust into colors you want to paint me as, why should that be a problem? But I'm already burnt as the companion candle of a grieving woman, I'm already reaching the bottom of the river with a set of limbs that want to run to you but drowning comes first, you're already taking the shape of my persistent dreams and sugarcoated nightmares, decorating my regrets with lacy ribbons of pretence; the thought of you creeps in from under my door and I'm suffocating again..