The still point of the turning world. Don’t talk about the weather, talk about love instead. Run fingers through auburn hair, and fall through the floor. Heartbeats echo. They spin without reason. Footsteps in the sand. Melting hands upon hips so soft. Stars and cosmic rays, colliding like cars on the freeway. Music makes us smile; it makes our bodies sway in the glare of flashing lights. Moments, the type of which slip away so easily. Flowers growing in secret gardens, singing unseen until we find ourselves anew. Dying trees and feelings, existing in delicate spheres of desire. Tears, falling like April showers. Dust covered photos, resonating with truth. So vivid and alive, as if they were taken only yesterday. It’s easy to be swallowed by emptiness. To allow ourselves to give in. Sadness can be addictive, clinging naturally like skin. All those whispered words, left floating for eternity. Drifting like ghosts, those uttered truths growing cold in the shadows of our mind. They get lost and never return. Such a pity that we let go of what makes us happy. Such a waste, that we throw away those we love so tenderly and complete. Life is nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of something obscure. A tangled mess of miracles. Wonders of chance. Chaos, forever raging out of control. It comes and goes, just like everything else. Here today obliterated tomorrow. So don’t let go, of those who come along so few and far in between. Don’t let go, of the chance of oneness. Sublime like sunrise, and delicate like fresh snow. Who knows if you’ll ever get another chance, to make right all those wrongs. Who knows if the sky will come crashing down when we were only just getting started.