Feathers with sharp edges
Feathers with sharp edges
Five years has passed
And I know I’ve been foolish
Missing you
But how you pour emptiness inside me
A sensation you master alone
When you knock on the heavy walls of my mind
I relieve you from your spot on my doorstep
Once more, we share this bed and you can’t resist
But to pull my hair
When you braid it
You stroke my fragile skin
Feathers with sharp edges
Old friend
They add so many letters to my name
I’m not sure what to call myself
Anymore
Microwaved flowers
Buckets of your words
Next to my bed
Your heartbeats on cassette
Like you’re still around
All that’s left (is)
Microwaved flowers
Technology conserved the last of our blooming
I can’t bring you back
Nothing but microwaved flowers
Wither
In the corner of my eye
A Sunday Ballad.
A Sunday Ballad
A taste of coffee
Sounds of silence
Making up words
This would seem like nothing
Looking in through my window
But these minutes
Are what matters now
You slipped away from
The corner of my eye
But I sense your weight on my floor
These walls know you by now
And this story should be told
Nothing is happening
But everything is
Changing
You’re throwing blessings on my bed
And I think it’s about time
That I wrote
A Sunday ballad for you
It Is a Tuesday Morning.
It Is A Tuesday Morning
The distance between us cannot be measured
It is not in the miles
It is not in the inches
In the space between my fingers
Where yours used to fit
It is a Tuesday morning
Waking up alone
Only my footprints in the snow
But when I’m not aware
When my eyes are closed and my breathing slow
You hold me and I make you smile
We share a cup of coffee and drink kisses
A step higher than reality
Absorbed in your presence
Not knowing it’s only an illusion
It is waking up
And you’re not there
That’s what gets me
