To the painters whose canvas is their flesh,
To those who write stories in the clouds that pass by,
To the only ones whose failed attempt to fly almost worked,
This one’s for you.

It must be some time past midnight,
the only time silence sounds right,
because even the floors were quiet.
The clocks on the walls I never see
remain as wrong as how my arms deceive,
because that’s the easiest way to deny it.

And even though the house was still,
I feel the blood flow through until…
well, stains never came out well.
Cabinet locks and corset doors
locked me away from anything more…
well, smiles always caused such hell.

And though it ended so infinitely,
I feel the loss of such indefinitely…
since you had always been mine.
Paper reminders of what we were
are the memories of this brand new chore…
since you made pain easy to confine.

To the poets whose words grace only their lips,
To the sculptors whose only marble is the eyes they blink,
To the harlequins who live the night life like no tomorrow…
This was for you.