I don’t want you in my heart and mind,
but in my arms
before my eyes

but you have left this place it seems,
there are no words that I can scream
to make the universe
give you back to me

The world in flames will turn to me and ask, “What have you done?”

And I will reply, matches hung in my hands like lead, “What I thought was right.”

The love you get is not always proportionate to the love you’ve given. Don’t ever let that stop you from giving all the love you can, anyways

You are the pen, the ink.
Your blood is what you drain as you sculpt the stories of your life

but the skies look so much more beautiful,
wherever you are

Does it matter how? Does it matter why, or when?
Or does it only matter,
that it matters