I like to pretend like my life has direction.

I pretend that I know what I'm doing.

I have no idea.

I'm a walking catastrophe.

Sometimes memories 

sneak out of my eyes

and roll down 

my cheeks.

Those eyes of yours

Could swallow stars,

Galaxies, and universes.

What hope did I ever have?

She never looked nice.

She looked like art, 

and art wasn't supposed

to look nice.

It was supposed to make you 

feel something. 

She buried her ears into the calm

of his heartbeat, 

and in a matter of seconds; 

fell terribly in love

with the way 

her loneliness fell

softly and suddenly, 

asleep 

in his chest.