I want to lie down like a tired child and weep away this life.

This entire time, I have been slaughtered by memories.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

My thoughts cannot move an inch without bumping into some pieces of you.

And all your fury is to hide a fragile heart.

She liked to disappear, even when she
was in the same room as other people.
It was a talent, as it was a curse.

Only the man and his God know of what sorrows reside in which corners of his heart.

But her soul is a wild one; always set on finding magic in sunsets and sunrises.

You laugh like a little girl,
and inside you think like a martyr.

Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor.

Like doves we cry for justice, and there is none.

In the quiet of the night, my mind wanders back to you once again.

She's the devil's favorite poem.

Or was her destiny from the start to be but just one moment near your heart?

Sleep is the most innocent creature there is and a sleepless man is the most guilty.

She's the type of flower that can still grow after a forest fire.

I didn't love her eyes for their color, I loved them because they saw me.

Since you left, home is dark.
No lights were broken, but hearts were.

And we don't repent from our dreams no matter how many times they're broken.

That which inspires us to our greatest good is also the cause of our greatest evil.

She never felt like she belonged anywhere, except for when she was laying on her bed, pretending to be somewhere else.