regrets

it is all quiet on this vast plane.

missing you

you stand behind a veil – so bright yet unreachable.

ghost

I stand on the edge. you are not here.

white lies

a white lie, pale with implication but silver with morals.

seesaw

we are on this never-ending seesaw of hatred and love.

home in your arms

sunlight through paper thin curtainsbrushes the side of your pale facewith a golden tendril of loveas the machines beep incessantlyyour breathing the only soundin a silent world. but even the best have to fall,and the happiest have to cry,so your breaths peter out,one by one,till sunlight fades into the tendril of death,who brushes your hair

ghost

whispering voices,the toll of the midnight bell,veil of death rises