This Journal

These are lives
of scribbled pages and folded up flowers
of memories we capture and confine to words
your story is colorful
bold
your tears stain the pages
where i can taste your fury
and when it ends,
i am left dumbfounded
in flickering streetlights and loneliness
i understand no better why you do the things you do
i dont feel passified
or justified
or anything really.
i look at you and me it helps me realize that
you are not perfect.
maybe i look at you and i think
that your imperfection is really something beautiful.