you and me we'd never work
sounds silly but you kiss too soft
you carry an umbrella for "just incase"
I love nothing more than to dance in the rain
you settle for just enough
while I want to feel too much

I am a broken vase you see
a vase that would  pour regardless how much you fill
we'd build a house where no story lies
we'd see each other but with no sparkle in  eyes
its  not love you feel
and one day you too will see
you'd kiss me but just with your lips
but I want a kiss with a wrecked whole heart
my love we are world's apart
and in our case opposites don't attract

you would be you
and I would be me
but we would never be us
that's why  we'd never work
so lets say the goodbye before it hurts

The ceiling peels in slow spirals,
not from neglect,
but from how long I’ve stared at it,
counting the flake’s hesitation before it drops.
The clock ticks without punctuation,
dragging each second like a dull knife
across something soft I used to need.

My limbs forget they’re mine
unless I remind them,
a muscle twitches,
a shoulder reconsiders its weight.
Even my name feels unstitched,
like a coat I keep meaning to throw away
but wear because it still remembers my shape.

Outside, birds call to each other
like they’ve never been tired,
like morning isn’t a decision.
Inside, I steep in low-level static,
a hum no one else hears,
thick as wool,
soft as resignation.

With sunlight sparse, and the world dark
You shine golden and gorgeous. My spirit ascends.
The glittering glow of your brilliance touches me gently, and the long darkness ends.

When bitterness overwhelms me
I lose hope, reference, reverence, and appetite.
You are the sweetness in my mouth that dances on the tongue and makes it all right.

While there is no nourishment for body or soul,
You are the honey that fills my hive.
You see me through the long cold winter.
You sustain my vitality.
You keep me alive.

We carved into stone —
because the earth would not remember us.
We painted onto pressed fibers —
because the river would forget.
We struck the press — metal on metal —
because a voice, once spoken, dies.
We soldered light into wire —
because even paper withers.

Each time —
a tug —
a pull —
the hand of art against the grinding stone of the world.
A desire — the human one —
to be more than a sigh against the windowpane.

And now —
now there are hands that shape words without feeling —
voices without breath —
thoughts unbothered by thinking.
The mirror has learned how to draw faces.

But I wonder —

can you teach a child to wonder,
if the hands that raise them are mirrors?
can you teach a heart to speak,
if the only language it knows is arrangement?

Can a soul be de-encoded,
once it has been filed, copied,
losslessly compressed?

And when we speak of touching earth —
grasping the real, the aching dirt under the dream —
I wonder —
have we ever truly touched it at all?
Or were we always reaching through glass?

It is easier to drift.
It is easier to let the current carry us, eyes closed,
believing the drift is the dream.

It is harder to open the eyes —
and harder still to keep them open.
It has always been harder.

Somewhere,
someone
still tries.