XVll-TheStar

In that instant, I felt the world stop The pressure drop And you're all I could see The falling rain: a part of me. The rolling thunder died, alone When your words are all I've known But it was with you the calm took hold The wind whispering it's secrets told.

Something happened Inside my heart, my soul, tonight You said something sweet again I expressed my happiness in your action And you resolved to continue Until it was no longer possible. I have never felt the intensity Of pure, unadulterated joy before The balloon welled up inside my chest Until I had to laugh out loud To release the pressure. I felt tears in my eyes: An over-abundance of emotion Going unchecked. You set my soul on fire.

If only you knew how far we've come. The endless black has much to show; for it's piercing white globes, riddled with the dust of angels, speaks a language we've only dreamed we could comprehend.

This tattoo: your script, The ethereal highway; Your soul on my skin.

This is your last chance To  p u l l  some meaning from life Better make it count.

Yes, I can see where the irony lies. These days, I sit and watch professionals cook on the television; fancy food that judges barely taste. And it doesn't fill me with the deep disgust that I think it may once have. I can see it in my head; the girls at dinner parties ashamed of themselves and feeling like every eye is on them like the eye of Sauron watches over. They excuse themselves, freshen up. Pour their heart and soul in the oval of a porcelain bowl. They don't feel good enough unless they're starving. The "hunger gnaws" but they cover up their feelings with pretty lies and champagne. I was the young child on the other side caught in

I'm a horrifying conglomerate of emotions. I know I should hate you. But I can't help but love your memory. And I think Arabella is a terrible middle name. It makes me want to vomit and swallow. I'm pissed off, mostly at myself. I walked away, purposefully placing each step, cutting each string that tied us together. But I can't cut these heart strings. I will never have scissors sharp enough. And they're reaching up, wrapping their way around my throat. I'm choking on my depression. If someone could take this place you left behind, I might feel a little better. But no one could come close to reaching the mark. How can someone fill the pla

I think the wedge has been driven in too deeply. It's so deep, it's cut our porcelain bodies in ha  lf. But I'm left with the top half, the one that thinks and feels: the heart that won't stop pounding, won't just give up and let it die. Instead, I pretended I had the bottom half. The one with legs that w a l k e d  a w a y. But we both know that's not true. Those legs are still there, waiting for the day when all the kings horses and all the kings men... And so we write. The words come naturally, most of the time. But I'll admit, sometimes I shine them. I add a little sparkle for dramatic effect. Because I'm not living my life  c o m p