Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.
A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,
I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,
the part where the sun goes to cry.
Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,
as all those paralyzed moments of waiting
fade like wilted flowers.
Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.
Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a
parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked
float down, landing in the hands of those who never
knew they were wanted.
She loved me,
she loved me not.
She did not want love at all,
only to be left alone in a glass vase
of unbreakable crystal.
Life breaks those who are fragile,
they fall from hands like stems
that smash on marble,
spilling the wine of potential.
You could spend your whole life sipping,
and never fully tasting,
or swallow it all in one shot and be done,
say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,
been detoxified through this one vein,
under pierced skin,
hard against the pulse of desire,
where this steady hand,
holds an empty syringe.
Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.
Sometimes the wind carries them
wing by wing,
as they balance against the storm,
a pair of blackbirds, separate from the
I watch them soar,
and think of us,
swaying under the stars.