Won't You Open Up Your Eyes?

You wake up
on a bright, cold morning,
and realize that the gray mist of lonely--
the faded presence of empty--
has been weighting your eyelids for far too long.

You blink,
and the silver ghost of sorrow
falls from your lashes,
and the morning is glorious.

The buttercup beams filter through
your gossamer curtains,
and dance a golden ballet above your head
as you drink the sky like water
and smell the clean that is dawn.

The world is new and soft
and bright
every morning.
And you life is cold and clear
and free
every night;
everything is perfect.

The sun is up,
the sky is blue,
it's beautiful
and so are you.


note: both the title and the last stanza are from Dear Prudence by the Beatles.

My Eyes Are Blue Like Yours.

Your fingers are like rain,
and as they run down my wrists
they are cold and they are winter.
Your fingers are white
like winter.
They are slow and sudden at once
like winter.

And your autumn eyes melt
what your winter fingers freeze,
and they smolder in crackling waves of amber,
and they are dying from want of life.

The springtime flowers bloom in your lips,
and warm storms thunder in your voice,
and when you kiss me,
it's like dew on grass;
it's like a milk white sunrise,
like a bleached dawn mist.

Your words bring the the summertime light,
and the bright July nights;
your words bring the smoke-laced tears
of the last summer sunset.
And your words are the salt-blue waves
that burn your throat when you laugh,
and burn your eyes when you smile,
and burn your winter fingerprints
onto the white of my wrists.

You Are My Candlelight.

With your moonlight-drenched,
gold-tipped fingers,
there is nothing you can't do.
My eyes cloud with a pearly veil of hope
as you turn my heartache to happiness,
my failures to brilliance,
my tears to butterflies.
My heartbeat gives your words a rhythm,
and that is the lullabye that beckons me into
the sweet, velvet dark of sleep.
And as your lips turn raindrops to rainbows,
and as your eyes turn castles to clouds,
keep the glow of my smile inside you
and know that you have changed me
into something beautiful,
something light.

Let's Hold Hands and Drink Hot Cocoa

With your head against a frigid window, a rush will pour into your bones and leave you shaking and empty and sad and smiling. With the scents of smoke and peppermint, winter will throw itself at you in an icy lace cage of emotion-- this summer sunset is finally the last; the air no longer rings of freedom and endlessness, but instead the lonely, cold comfort that only October nights can bring. Peaches will fade into fires, and the world will cluster in close as we mourn the loss of sand and salt and turquoise.

His Lips Were Soft and Hers Were Cold.

There's a strange beauty in being broken.
A honger for loneliness,
a fear of the sunlight that is,
now,
almost unrecognizable.
There are remnants of
that unfamiliar light--
illuminating your eyes,
shining from your cheeks.
There is a ghost of hope,
plated with gold and fragile as autumn air,
that you can fix what is broken
and end the ceaseless, empty longing
for forever.

i miss you :( i'm sorry i haven't written anything in so long. i love you <3

Remember Me as a Time of Day

Remember me as

the cold midnight air

and as the golden dawns reflected

in your Skyline Eyes.

Remember me when

the sun slips below the horizon

and breathed beauty into

the cold concrete world.

Remember me like

the clouds that fade out of the sky,

when the heat makes us feel alive,

as we sleep and smile and sit very still.

And I can look out the window towards the sunset and the skyline...

Your fingers in mine used to be so tangible.

Now they are nothing but the silver lace of ghosts; Divine reminders of what I have Loved, what I have lost.

Your fading presence faded my very existence--changing the bright and warm summer smiles into worn and sun-bleached photographs, tearful and empty keepsakes beneath my cigarettes and pens that have long since spent their ink on you.

The days with you, surrounded by yellow and sky-blue, have been washed by loneliness and transformed into barely-glowing nights. Holding your hand and grinning against your lips has changed into applying crimson lipstick alone in the moonlight, and singing in a broken voice to beautiful songs that aren't nearly as beautiful when you are not here.

I hate what you've done to me.
I hate the way you've changed me.
I hate that you're not with me.
I Love you.

I barely knew her.

I talked to her once, maybe twice. If that.

But like. So many of my friends were so, so close to her.

People shouldn't just die.

Love Poem.

With my hand in yours,
I am safe;
your hand is warm,
and white,
and smooth.
It smells like brown sugar
and it looks like those moths
that flutter in the moonlight--
those moths that look
like they are made from the moonlight.

Let me come with you,
and we can sit
on the floor,
and we can surround ourselves with candles.
We can give wings to the ceiling
and as the roof flies away,
we can wish on the stars
and watch the flower petals twirl
in the nighttime breeze.

She's Afraid of Everything

The floor is white,
bleached, worn,
coated with layers and layers
of sand and rose petals.
There's a table
with a typewriter
and a candle.
The roar of the waves
is almost deafening.
Loud enough to shut everything out,
quiet enough to fade into the daylight.
The window is open,
the moth-eaten curtains flying up
with the wind.
The door is open, too,
crooked on its hinges.

Slow Dancing In a Burning Room

The pale lights that lit us up,
shining and beautiful,
dimmed slowly.
The bows that held us together,
slick with silk and moonlight,
began to slip.

So we gritted our teeth
and ounraveled ourselves;
Lace fell to the floor,
ribbon cascaded towards the ground like a starry waterfall.

We sat in the bright heat of daytime,
praying for the glare to wash out
what we once struggled to see by starlight.

We forgot all the the complexities and rhythms that used to define us,
forgot the steps to the waltz we once waltzed.
We stripped it to its moon-flooded skeleton--
my hands barely touching your shoulders,
yours afraid to hold me close.

note: the title belongs to John Mayer

When he first discovered his dentures in the garden,

hidden amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets,
he put his hand to his forehead
and allowed himself a tear.
The disease,
he thought,
has finally taken a hold of me.

He walked out of the garden
and into his house,
dentures in hand,
feet shuffling slower with each step.

That night, the dentures
are placed neatly by the sink,
next to an empty bottle
that once held almost thirty
little white tablets.
The man is in his bed,
fingers still,
the corners of his mouth turned down,
breath nonexistent.

And as he lays,
and empty shell on his
wife's old comforter,
too lost and hopeless to continue,
the door to his house creaks open.
A boy, oblivious
to the sudden absence of life,
passes the bedroom door
on his way to the bathroom.
He stops by the sink.
Shoving aside the empty pill bottle,
he grabs the dentures and leaves quickly,
hiding them once again
in the garden--
amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets.

author's note: the first line/title, again, is not mine. it belongs to either Jack Driscoll or Bill Meissner.

As the moon showed its face--

washing the black-reds of roses
with muted and shifting shine--
the night flowers bloomed.
With starlight they glowed,
they glowed until the first fire of sunrise was sparked.

I have let my fingers turn to glass,

and they are cool and smooth
as they wipe tears from your face.
They glow like crystal
as they gesture for you
in the moonlight.
They are tight and desperate
as they cling to your wrist,
keeping you from leaving
as the sun comes up.
And as you go,
wrenching your arm from my grasp,
my fingers shatter.
Luminescent shards litter
the nighttime ground
as I stand, silent,
watching you run towards the sunrise.
I realize, as the pain in my chest
mirrors the pain in my had,
that my fingers are not
the only thing that you have broken.




author's note: the first line/title isn't mine. it was written by Jack Driscoll / Bill Meissner.

You're not afraid of dying, Love.

You just know,
like I know,
that it forces you into permanence.
You are forever what you were in that moment;
forever suspended in that last breath;
forever remembered for those last words.
You're not afraid of dying, Love.
Just terrified that it will take you by surprise.
The only thing to do, really,
is to have every second be permanent,
every moment be forever.
You wouldn't be afraid of dying, Love,
if you knew that it was this,
right now,
watching the sunset
and holding my hand
and listening to the ocean waves.

s e s t i n a .

I can see your hands
shaking in the moonlight.
Not from the cold though, I don't think.
They shake because you're afraid
that morning is too far away,
that you'll never really see the sun.

I am miles away, in the sun.
The heat is weakening my hands,
and the cool blue of nighttime is fading away.
I miss the forgiving glow of moonlight,
the way it makes me less afraid,
the way it gives me space to think.

You close your eyes, trying not to think,
trying to squint and see the sun,
trying not to be afraid.
The freezing air numbs your hands,
and you try to warm them in the moonlight.
But whenever warmth comes, the night chases it away.

You want nothing more than to run away,
but before you do, stop. Think.
Do you really want to hide from the moonlight?
Will anything be easier in the sun?
Maybe the light will calm your hands,
but maybe the glare will just make you afraid.

You're not the only one that's afraid,
that lives for the idea of going away.
You're not the only one with frozen hands.
And even though you're scared to think
of never seeing the sun,
maybe you're better off in the moonlight.

I'll lay with you, in the moonlight,
and together, we won't be afraid.
When the night ends, we can stare at the sun.
We'll run away,
not stopping to think.
We'll run into the dawn, holding hands.

When you're afraid, imagine the sun.
Wish away your icy hands,
and don't think of anything but moonlight.

The fastest I've ever seen you walk was when you were walking away.

Flying, almost, you tore open clouds and they trailed behind you, pink and tangerine, colored by the sun's goodbye. Your goodbye was just as beautiful, filled with frozen tears and rose petals whirling through the air.

And as you walked into the flaming dusk, sparks flying behind you and the sun's fire ahead, you left me cold. Snowflakes fell into my eyelashes and were melted by tears as I sat, shivering in the night's cold lace.

The starlight was all you left behind, pulsing and blindingly white, but still too far away to touch.

And as you fly towards twilight, your transparent wings whistling through the crimson air, just remember that I'm watching your silhouette, blurred by the saltwater in my eyes; the saltwater sticking to my cheeks because you're not here to wipe it away.

When people look at you,

their eyes mist
and their skin tingles,
and their cheeks glisten with the heat of their tears.
As you strum your heartbeat,
mine matches yours,
and my heart shakes my body.
My hair flies up,
and my hands fly with it.

Jade green and moon white,

her eyes searched the twilight.
She didn't know what for,
but she found you:
a point of light,
shining and struggling.
A star in a snowstorm,
gorgeous, exploding.

There was a way

you could reach through silence,
diamond dust and Love feathers,
fireworks of words and feelings.
You were my sunlight;
when you focused on me
I glittered
and smiled.
And when salt fell from your eyes,
my cheeks were wet
and it was like we were the same.
It make me beautiful and brilliant
and alive and in Love.
I miss you, Lovely.
I miss my reflection.

We sat on a white bench

under a willow tree,
remember?
And you held my hand as we watched
the roses unfold.
One day, when there was a cloud in the shape of a rose,
you brought scissors with you,
to the bench,
remember?
And you bent over, so your cornsilk hair fell in your eyes,
and cut the prettiest rose out of the ground.
You sat until dusk, peeling the thorns
from the stem, and when you pricked your fingers,
the blood was red as roses.
You gave me the thornless rose,
remember?
And you said that it reminded you
of me,
and you said that if I unfolded,
like the rose,
I would put the roses to shame.
Remember?
And when I did unfold, like a rose,
you kissed me until our lips were roses,
and our fingers were scissors
as we stripped each other of thorns.

The tears travel down your cheeks,

coloring and crystallizing your skin.
Your eyes brighten, a delicate turquoise against
your lashes, and your face tilts
to meet a sky of the same color.
Lose yourself in the flawless horizon
as you back unfolds into wings,
shimmering and feathered with frost.
Raise your star-white arms
above your golden head
and fly fly fly
up into the brilliance.

they made snow angels in the gold of the setting sun.

It's Really Not So Cold

The raindrops were glassy,
soaking my hair
and dripping down
from your eyelashes.

And as your hand found mine,
warm and soft as
candle-lit ivory,
my umbrella flew into the gray
on glistening wings,
and my jacket turned to sunlight.

I'll reach out and grab your hand,

and we will tug each other in a whirl of long hair and loose laughter through a cold glass door and into a cold glass night. Dew will start to collect on the grass, and the soles of our bare feel will tingle with the moisture. We will lie on our backs, our hands barely touching in a moment of shivering harmony, and we will lift our arms to point at clusters of stars, floating just out of reach. We will breathe in the frosty, moonlit air and listen to the muted voices of the people we'll be hidden from.

The orange glow of forgotten streetlights

filters through the blackness,
through an open window.
Jade green moth wings,
floating on the spring storm breeze
at midnight,
whispering around my eyelids,
singing me to sleep;;
singing me a Lullabye
about how I'll be somebody
in the morning.

There are those times,

sitting awash in the sun's shimmer, where you can't hide from yourself. When you're listening to the right song and thinking of the right moment, and it's like your heart attacks you. You feel everything you could possibly feel, and the complexities and contradiction in the emotions are enough to make you scared of yourself. You are suddenly so alone, yet you've never felt more a part of something.

This does happen to other people, right?

The leaves are on the trees now,

they're golden green,
reflecting the morning sunshine
so it falls in shining stripes,
split by the shadows of the blinds
you draw.
The sunlight colors your eyelids with happiness,
tickles your lips into curving
into the smile that only spring
can bring . . .

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite...

We've mastered the art of pretending,

our talent is such that we can hide,
even from ourselves,
that we're just lost in the loneliness
of lusting for Love.
The longing for belonging is illustrated on our bodies--
the questions blooming in our violet eyes,
the inky hearts strewn across our skin like so many stars,
lost amongst each other,
shining and dying and shining and dying
and shining.

HEY STARDUST

Y'know how you were talking about liking All Time Low? Well. I'm seeing them on Friday night, I'll think of you when they play :]

How are you, btw? Miss you.

You're the miserable cliche

of how painful and beautiful Love can be. The feelings you induce are the kind that twist your insides in a way that breaks them, the kind that make those ever-present butterflies in my stomach beat their wings so hard and fast that it tears me apart. But in that tearing is a stunningly gorgeous realization that I want to right here, right now, continuously shredded from the inside out more than I want to be anywhere else. Because with this explosion comes a transformation--I change into something ethereal, sharp and sparkling, rose petals of shining ice, breaking in a pool of crimson and gold, frozen and spinning in the intensity of a million scarlet sunrises.

You, my dear, are the inspiration behind the beautiful train wrecks that I secretly aspire to be--adorned in diamonds, surrounded by the haze of cigarettes and the melodies drifting between universes.

You're just as tragic

and beautiful,
as the most elegant suicide.
Drenched in lace and diamonds,
rose petals,
scarlet upon dusky pink.
Feathers upon feathers,
soft and white,
falling in the cloud-smoke tail
of a dove's flight.
Your name is written in the sky overhead,
white like snow,
melancholy, melancholy...
I can't let you go.

This midnight Love poetry,

the constant exchange of
perfection
that only we,
united by words and moonbeams,
can understand.
The desperation to be Loved
and to live...
To run and run
during the summer dusk,
moonlight at our heels,
sunset glowing crimson in the darkness
as we blink.
Indigo skies and crystalline lies--
take my hand
and squeeze three times.

Caught

in the celestial tornadoes of
your words,
your looks,
your fingertips.
Lost and longing for
the pressure of your lips.
Spinning into a blissful oblivion
of Loving you at the speed of light,
hair flying back,
our eyes locked in an
imaginary waltz.
One two three one two three,
hold me 'til sunrise comes and fills the space
that you fill in the moonlight

Exploding into the hazy dusk,

folding in,
a flower in reverse...
Winter Fall Summer Spring.
Midnight plum petals,
reflecting the black holes that suck
light through your pupils.
Pupils surrounded
by sapphire iridescence,
terrible and tranquil.
Pearly teeth and pointy ears,
glass, crimson-stained words.
Sharp and malicious,
whistling and whispering through the air.

Your silhouette

stark against starlit blackness,
dark and shimmering
with a streetlight halo.
I'll run to you,
and press my face to your chest.
Breathe in--
my heart will weep at the scent
of lilacs and emeralds,
emeralds like your fierce,
glowing eyes,
locking me in a jade embrace.
Joining into a trio of
gorgeous stone
with your onyx lashes
and ruby lips.
Your ruby lips.

It's spinning and pure,

a white-orange, like sunset
hitting diamond silver snow.
On the horizon,
dancing with the moon--
tangible, musical...
Shining opalescence,
smooth to the touch
sweet and cold,
frozen spun crystal sugar...

She'll be the one with the tears in her eyes,

the one staring, infatuated,
at the tortured beautiful boy in the corner.
She'll be the one with the ink on her arms,
She'll be the one drumming her fingers
to the beat of those silent symphonies
that you're humming so far away.

It's sad when I think about it--

My mom makes me nervous. Like really, really nervous, and I hate it. I mean, I honestly don't think she's as much of a bitch as I've built her up to be, and I really do Love her. And I know she Loves me too, but it's hard when she's acting like... how she normally acts, to be honest. I mean, I have to talk to her about my math grade for god's sake, how easy is that? but still i know it won't be casual, it'll be like a Discussion, so i practically have BUTTERFLIES from the nerves. i mean, it's TALKING TO MY OWN MOTHER ABOUT SCHOOL, AND IM CHEWING MY NAILS AND KINDA-SORTA FREAKING OUT. how fucked up is THAT? i mean really. i should just stand up to her, next time she's awful [which will be today, because it's every day]. i mean, she doesnt abuse me, she respects my opinion on some level, and she's a nice person, mostly. so many people have it SO MUCH WORSE, mom-wise. i should just fix this, once and for all. i mean, it wouldn't be THAT hard to have a decent relationship with her, would it?

i'm an idiot.

but wish me luck anyway?

Jumping off cliffs, and watching them shrink

into the infinitely expanding, star-strewn sky,
all ice-crystal and diamond-edges,
feeling the wind's invisible ink
pen gorgeous verses and sing them softly,
only to you...
That ice-blue rush below your ribs,
freezing your heart, making it shiver.
An incomparable feeling, amplified by the tickle of the tears
streaming down your face, running through your open lips.

You're In Love.



Disclaimer-thing: The whole idea for this comes from a random Ray Bradbury quote in the introduction of a collection of his short stories-- "Why did I do it? Why did I keep jumping off those cliffs? The answer is an immense cliche: Love."

I know how invisible you think you are,

shrouded in self-doubt,
shrinking further and further
into the walls of that empty,
empty blackness that you've built for yourself.
I know how invisible you think you are.
But you're not, Lovely, you're not--
i can see you, lit up like goldshine snow,
shimmering in the soft, sharp firedust that falls upon you,
shifting and filtering through the dark,
showing how beautiful you are, how full of Love.
I know you can see that shimmer, Lovely,
and i know, i know that you think
you're the only one that can see it.
I know you think that it can only be seen
by those crackling amber eyes,
that it can only be acknowledged
by that tilting, spontaneous half-smile.
I know how invisible you think you are.
But Lovely, you need to know,
you need to know,
just how visible you could be.
When you see those twirling, eternal sun spotlights,
you need to stop thinking that they're for someone else.
They're for you, Lovely.
They're for you.

It would be better

if heartbreak was icecrystal
shattering against steel.
Instant, loud, dramatic.
Not this slow ripping,
this silent pain,
disguised by a mask of
poorly composed nonchalance...

Transfixed on the space where midnight blue melts to nighttime rose,

lost in the sunset flashing
off of sheet-ice windows,
mirrored by your fire
filled eyes.
Dancing shadows,
dark and flitting,
sprint under your eyelids,
blue circles of smoldering ice
chasing them from side
to side.

Stardust (if you're still reading this):

alrighty. so i'm totally being weird today, and i went back and read all of your comments. and then i found "an oxymoron that shouldn't exist, but does". you said it when you were talking about the sparkles in cement, remember?

and then, i was thinking, that in class yesterday, this kid was talking about blacklights.

an oxymoron that shouldn't exist, but does.

i n s p i r a t i o n

• light
• Love
• colors
• people
• you
• windown
• nighttime
• stars
• pens
• movement
• cars
• building
• time
• fountains
• coins
• music
• sounds
• lyrics
• writers
• strangers
• dreadlocks
• leather jackets
• photographs
• cameras
• lists
• keyboards
• freedom
• opinons
• dimensions
• words
• knowing
• blankness
• temperature
• happiness
• sadness
• why the fuck am i writing this?

So um.

I haven't written in a while.

It's a combination of a lot of things, but that's not important.

I'll try harder though, kay? Love you guys.

You were hovering in the snow-heavy clouds,

surrounded by crystalline flakes,
gorgeous, misunderstood.
You were shrouded in milky moonshine,
midnight silk and orgasmic starlight.
You were all the mystery of smoky jade eyes,
of galaxies rushing towards eternity...
And then you were words,
floating like smoke along the blinding skyline,
lilting and pounding in my ears,
a cracked mirror of intensity and beauty.
You were diamonds and feathers,
you glimmered and spun.
And then,
and then,
you were Love.
You were the webs of sugar,
the webs of smiles.
You replaced the salt, the tears.
The web of brilliant intoxication,
the web of frosted emotion--
It would take someone infinitely stronger than me
to escape from that.
The Love wasn't you, no. It was bigger.
It was light, it was color, it was sea glass and snow drops.
A flawed fairytale, a transparent masquerade.
But that Loveweb can't be unspun,
and I'm tangled, lost.
And you're tangled, lost, in the heartbraking sunrise,
the neverending nighttime.
It's a beautiful pain,
it's torture you crave,
brings tears to your shining eyes because
it reminds you that you're more than they
can see.
I can see you,
and my heart breaks every time I do.
Don't make it stop.

Hello, Beautiful...

Whenever anybody looks into my eyes and sees nothing but emptiness--and invisible and opaque grey, i blink. i think that if i blink away the solidity, the blankness, they'll see that it's fog. opalescent and haunting, they can peer right through to a golden honey sunset. a searing combination of crimson and silver, bronze and tangerine, the cotton candy pink, the cotton candy blue... they'll see, in the veiled sunset, the same clouds i chase towards the horizon whenever i think of staying beneath them infinitely, cloaked in the sweet, solitary safeness of smelling the summer and starlightstarbright. i'll be the first star they see tonight, the only one they'll see for the rest of their lives.

the ice that encases my heart

is jagged and opaque,
melting when you're close to it,
making it beatbeatbeat a little
harderbetterfasterstronger,
before freezing as soon as you take away
any part of you.

I'm sorry,
i know you're not the only one
who can melt it,
and i know i depend on you
more than i should.

I know your eyes aren't really enchanted,
i know your words aren't really soft,
subtle Love songs,
hiding behind a mask of casualty.
I know.

Author's note: "harderbetterfasterstronger" is Kanye West's. random, i know, but i stuck it in here. the rest is mine.

Stardust:

i miss you a lot

If you'd never been here--

if you hadn't seen grass or tasted peach, or fallen in love with anything but Saturn's rings...

if you knew english, but had never seen the things it was talking about

you couldn't imagine hate. it could be a blessing.

you can't imagine love; you're not even close to understanding something that big and beautiful

you can't imagine war, loss, pain...

you can't imagine hearbreak, you can't imagine light and music

and you can hear the word for what they are, not what we've twisted them to be.

every word in this language should be beautiful. fragile and perfect and felt. people hear a combination of vowels and consonants, the don't hear what you mean to say. they hear the emphasis on the syllables, not on the feelings.

but if you were floating around in inky blue, with winking white lights of dying stars, if you were learning the magic of words for the first time, and had nothing to mar and change the lucid perfection, you would gasp with awe, appreciation, wonder... at everything.

listen. imagine flying. you can feel the wind in your hair, hear it singing to you the way nothing else ever could--lending itself to you and allowing you to make it anything you could possible want. imagine flying.

now imagine, if you knew nothing else except the meaning of flying. knew nothing about these words that we fling about except that one word to express pure exileration, that word to express the impossible, that word as pure and crystalline and flawless as Love and Light... and then you heard that there were creatures called flies. flys. flyes. flyers. imagine how you would think of them, having never seen them. they should be angles. their wings should be huge, glossy, pearl-sheened with feathers as silky as water and as sharp as filed diamond. they should have faces with soft, meltingice azul eyes... they should have high, milky cheekbones and always be surrounded by mist.

if i could change any word in the english language, if there is one word that is completely misinterpreted by the creature used to represent it--it is flies. flies should equal angels.

it makes me sad in a way that nothing this trivial should.

The tears running down my face are just liquid drops of delicate desperation,

salty souveniers of this Love that breaks me, over and over. I wish I could look into your eyes and see, at the glassy bottoms of those whirling, aqua pools, that you feel this way, too. But even if you were here, beside me, even if you could hold my gase for more than a frozen moment that is instantaneously, simultaneously, forgotten and Forever, I wouldn't find this emotion. This shameless need for bottomless adoration, this heart wrenching want for your Love-dust words to be whispered for me, for only me. Wrapped in crackling cellophane and hidden under and icicled and abandoned Christmas tree. I'll send a Missing You mist and a magic carpet--float until you appear on the dew-drenched grass below my broken window, only to look up and see my face turned to the pulsing, starlit sky, wishing for you on the red lights of Jealousy Jetplanes. I'm not your dream, I know. I don't whiz through your mind like a comet, burning a fire trail of light and pain. All I can give you is this silent serenade, this Lovelorn letter. You're my world, rotating on the invisible axis of belief that I'm your world, too. Please, Lovely, please. Tell me you Love me. Tell me in words, in whispers. Tell me in the way you blink your eyes, tell me in the way you say my name. Even if you don't, okay? Tell me you Love me.