“He grabbed my hand as the flames licked at my feet and the devil and I danced.”

Faded secrets and old voices have built towns inside my heart. Thats were we still meet.

The sun touched your skin with innocent delicacy as if you were a work of out that was made to be admired deeply.

The sky was crying so I wiped away her tears, just like all the times she did the same me.

Each time I fall back in love with myself, I leave my pen and paper behind. It isn’t personal, or maybe it is. I just a always thought that poetry was for the hurting.

I woke up this morning and for once, I had no desire to drink my morning coffee. Is that how it felt for you to wake up and never return?

In a dream like haze, the moment you left still spins on repeat like a broken record.

I hope you think of me during every thunderstorm.

You don’t deserve my poetry. I hate that I give you that satisfaction still.

Your name still tastes like poison in my mouth.

Soft and sweet and wrapped around your fingertips.

I have so much love to give even with these daggers still stuck in my heart.

I am still weighed down by unspeakable heaviness- It follows like shadow currents.

I thought time would heal my broken heart, but its been forever since I fell in love and I’m scared that you took pieces of me that can’t be replaced.

Be here with me tonight, and lets sing the saddest moon song there ever was.

A place where our stories are rewritten, and six degrees of separation no longer troubles us.

My mother always told me that love is like a plant, but she never prepared me for the realization that too much love towards the wrong person can drown your heart until it rots.

There may be trouble ahead – But while there’s moonlight, and music, and love, and romance -Let’s face the music and dance.

Let’s face the music and dance.

Put on your red shoes, and dance the blues.

I think a lot about when times were simpler, when I was still dancing and living with my parents. I really miss living at home sometimes. I get really sad.

The body is your instrument in dance, but your art is outside that creature, the body.

You don’t ask what a dance means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what the world means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what you mean. You enjoy it.

Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors.

Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart.