on going chapters that never ended,

unspoken words.

a scent that haunts the pages that i am,

and the liquor that pours down my throat.

the aching possibility you might love me,

if only i can persist.

the sky cries.

not for a love that died,

but for one that never was born.

if sadness is an emotion,

let it be my motion.

to be heartbroke is to be alive,

and, for that, i am thankful.

to be someone,

or nothing at all,

is the same.

reocoring themes,

i write only from the heart.