Annotating Cause Books Are Meant To Be Lived In.

And speaking the ancient tongue is like reaching out and having a chat with history itself, shadows and shimmers of unspoken words bound by time, now escaping through the curve of your lips.

Don't kiss me yet,

Let our minds wander first, together,

Let our souls touch,

And then perhaps,

I will love you too.

Walking through the machines, They’d see blued bones Every place you held me in. Bated breaths from them peeling The suitcase we let gather dust, How come we’re on the same flight, Just in different terminals? The plane which took off before mine, carried the longing with it, And what is your love without the yearning mixed in it? Not the shaking when we landed, Face first in deep so called regret, Ignored the rumbling of shoved voices, What could be better than your heart’s erratic noises, When I pass through the crimes of unforgivable circumstances?

But minds aren't a cage of thoughts really, they mean to free us from our burdened mortality.

How can you not expect me to get attached when the first thing you said to me was, 'oh you've read that book?'

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.

Singing softly as our ship sank

This time our serene notes of joy,

Escaping in bubbles of desperation,

As we cling on to the broken raft of our love.

I hate the sunset tonight, the world is shaking and nothing feels right the calculator shows me a paradigm of an answer without a number in sight I hate the sunset tonight because that would mean you’re leaving, without even putting up a fight, without the unspoken names of the constellations we once found without the trace of our foreheads pressed together just right I hate the sunset tonight I’ve got my pens and papers out by the coast side the pile of broken calculators grows taller and I try to catch sight of your flight come back down, stop flying out of my sight come back down, won’t you make it right? the sun bleeds over my homework, the water rushes out of my veins, the horizon pools over and drops down in a terrible rhythm, a bit, then a bit more until it bleaches out memories right now, this night. I hate the sunset tonight

writing is just letting your wounds bleed on paper.

When the rocks seem miles away and the shore steeping and breathless, the desire to keep falling and falling overcomes the cause, when the sky flew faster than you, all the light was just blinding, never golden and when you lay by the riverbank, scarlet red seeping into clear eyes, scarlet red from where carnations grew, only does your breath turn tragic, turning poetic, when love struck jewels emerge, careful fingers touch the rubies, and this is all the power I have, to only lament words I cannot fathom and trace the fall over and over till only golden ichor flows anew.