Plagiarism is defined as the usage of another's work or ideas without proper accreditation, to take one's work to utilize as your own. Some may say I've plagiarized, that I've used another's words without properly crediting the original author, but that would simply not be true. I've written every song with her in mind and so, in the writing credits I included the affectionate term of endearment Sunshine.

Now, only a singular soul on this eternally spinning orbitor truly knows the purpose of this credit. Only she would comprehend its significance, that is why I've written it that way.

I've written every song with her in mind--with the memories of her in mind.

Meet Me in the Hallway

... . . . . . .

Padding over to her bag, she slipped the notebook out from next to the vinyl, flipping through the pages as she skimmed the words for the syllables she'd been searching for.

'We don't talk about it

It's something we don't do

'Cause once you go without it

Nothing else will do'

She tapped the page harshly with her fingertips, a tight-lipped smirk pulled across her cheeks, "Found it." She turned the bounded journal to bring the words into my line of sight, she pointed at the writing on the corner's edge, the corner of a page doused in doodled images and other reflections, "This one."

My vision slipped across the page, taking in each word carefully. I knew her knowledge would bring the key out of my dugenned mind. I knew she'd seen glimpses of it--pitch black, nothing in sight but a single drop of sunlight shining in from a lone window. It was littered with alcohol induced nightmarish disfigurements of my past. The ground was enveloped in glass shards, no navigable path was visible without tearing the skin off of the soles of my feet and tearing through the depths of my conscience. I was found guilty of a charge that was simply that, guilt. My chains and shackles held me down, held me back, because I was guilty.

This key was what I needed, to unlock my own prison, and to unlock hers. "Mind if I try something?"

My mossy irises met hers----meadows of lush green grass and thick oak woods, fields of sunflowers, cherry blossoms, and a sanctuary. Security in her features, she obliged,"Go ahead."

I propped the open pages on my knee, lifted the guitar to sit on his lap, I hummed out the introspective sentiment before croaking out the few lines. My fingers strummed the guitar's strings and fidgeted with the instrument's neck. I'd hoped I'd done her brilliance justice.

"We don't talk about it. It's something we don't do."

I could see the validity of her words, I could see the enchantingly virtuous nature of them.

"'Cause once you go without it."

I could hear the impact in my ears.

Her mind was a dungen just as dark, she was looking for an accomplice, a match to light the path past the dysmorphic mirrors, someone to carry her burden alongside her. Her ironclad chest concealed a fragile beating heart, one that is meant to love but has been hardened by the distrust built inside of her brain, arteries blocked by an insatiable appetite for escape.

Two broken hearts don't mend into a strong heart. Two broken people don't mend into a strong person. Two wrongs don't make a right. But I'd thought maybe just this once, she was the right remedy for my broken heart, my broken soul, and maybe I could have been hers.

"Nothing else will do."

... . . . . . .

Sign of the Times

... . . . . . .

Uncontrollable, hysterical sobs sent me to sleep on that hardwood floor.

Pitch blackness is what I was brought back to as I regained consciousness. Rain poured so heavily that the world outside my window was blurred. The blissful state of momentary memory loss was quickly stolen away as the precipitation pattered down on the roof. Rain was something unspokenly significant to Phoebe and I, every remarkable moment that ever happened between us occurred when it rained. The first day I ever saw her, it rained. The night when she kissed me and I found out she wanted me, we danced in it. When she finally told me why she dyed her hair blonde and I told her why I'm an alcoholic hamaxophobiac, it poured. I guess it was fitting then, that now that it had ended, it was pouring down the hardest it ever has.

A crater in my chest, a hole that wouldn't be filled, was left by the sip of spirit. I knew I had to let her go, her expression of utter terror showed how much I'd betrayed her, how many promises I'd broken.

Eventually, once I'd seen the silver lining--that I could live a life she would have been proud of--I stopped crying. It was time, time to change. This was my sign, to get away from here and build myself up on my own accord, to authentically grind out the kinks in myself to discover a well-polished, well-achieved masterpiece.

A masterpiece of strength--one that was originally planned out with tape and glue but now has the structure of cement and plaster. One that's grown from mistakes, grown from tragedy.

Grown from mistakes--mistakes of pushing away the ones they love because of fear that led to insurmountable grief.

Grown from tragedy--tragedies of losing the ones they love because of uncontrollable devastation that led to insurmountable grief.

Running from the bullets that would've once pierced vital organs and let the scarlet life drain onto the ground. Running from the continuous abuse of mental cages.

Speaking on behalf of the cages that once wasted potential but now are broken down to disarm them of their power. It was all too much, but now, now it's a stepping stool to reach the furthest corners of myself, to stretch up and allow artistry to become me.

... . . . . . .

Carolina

... . . . . . .

My eyes pulled apart slowly at the sound of shuffling and song, she always seemed to be dancing in the kitchen. Her nimble body skipped around the kitchen in search of a breakfast she'd never find in that emptied fridge. The early morning hours seemed to be her favorite--discarded clothing, discarded inhibition.

'Tiff's it is,' I heard her quiet whisper mutter out.

The rich scent of caffeine wafted around her swaying figure as she mumbled out the words that the vinyl had poured out upon her request. She spun and swayed her hips to the melodic music. I heard the clanging of mugs hitting the counter. I'd always liked waking up to coffee, she seemed to know that and made it a habit to brew it as soon as she awoke. She'd always liked waking up to coffee, I knew that and made it a habit to brew it as soon as I awoke. She beat me to it nearly every time, my Sunshine.

Her porcelain skin was bare of anything, the dim light shining through the window shone a spotlight on her perfect body. God she's beautiful, I'd never seen someone make living seem so enchantingly elegant. Everything she did was done with an unmatched grace, her heavenly shape met with her brilliant mind leaves me in awe.

She twirled to tug on a button up of mine that was discarded on the ground the night before, wrapping it around her torso to hide her shivering skin. Her quiet steps sped up in pace as she neared the foot of our bed. She jumped up into the air and fell into my body as she hit the bed. A groan left my chest from the impact as I tugged her into me, enveloping her waist and digging the tips of my fingers into the plush of her hips.

Her soft giggles swirled my insides as they always did and left a flutter in my chest, I pressed soft kisses to the revealed skin on her shoulder that'd been abandoned by the fallen shirt. I tossed the top duvet cover over the both of us and began nibbling at her neck which elicited hitched breaths from her perfectly pink lips.

Salaciousness turned to sweetness--after laying in our newfound exhaustion and sex-slickened skin, her voice brought that feeling of glowing in my chest.

"Have you ever been to the Carolinas?" Her non sequitur brought my brows down.

I shook my head, "I haven't, have you?"

She nodded quickly, "I went once with Bob, visited his mother." I stare in delight as she continues her story, "She was actually a really interesting woman, her name was Townes. She went out to California to become a star but ended up being some director's doe-eyed arm candy, he croaked and left her his estate. She took the money and ran, came back to the Carolinas and had a family, had Bob and became some sweet old lady."

... . . . . . .

Two Ghosts

... . . . . . .

Her head shook as it dropped into her hands, howling cries blew past her fingers that shivered her shoulders. Her cries rang in my ears and sliced open my chest. We both stood at a distance, unable to reach out and stop the harrowing storms that plagued our minds. Her rogued, tear streaked cheeks lifted from her hands, her bloodshot eyes found mine hesitantly, "I will not put myself through this again. I will not coddle you through this. I've done that before and it royally fucked me over."

Arguing, arguing, arguing. We had gone so long without it, and then, then it was back with a vengeance. A vengeance that I knew in that moment would change everything.

The bottle tipped back, the slow burn coated my throat as the liquid slid down, my eyes widened at the familiar fire. A destructive fire that inevitably scorched those amber waves and lush green meadows.

A hurt gasp fell from her lips as she fell to her knees in defeated weeps. Inhumane whines broke past the palms brought up to cover her mouth. Raw and brutal and beating her to the ground. My love muscle ached then at the sight of her and aches now at the memory, I'd let her crumble completely, I'd sent her temple crashing down.

I'd let her down for the final time, she was finally free of me. I was no longer her burden to carry.

The bottle wawa brought into my peripheral vision, it was placed on the counter before coming back to stand in front of her rumpled figure.

I stood there helplessly in silence, patiently waiting for the storm to eventually settle. I couldn't help her, shelter her from the hurricane--no storm shutters on the windows, no sanctuary. I couldn't help her, this was all my fault. All I could do was watch as she left me.

Eventually, her hands were brought down to either side of her kneeling body and she pushed herself to stand. The heels of her palms rubbed at her eyes to force back floods of saline, swiping her fingers was no match for the open floodgates, the streams steadily fell down her cheeks. Her rubied lips were left swollen and a bloodied hue from her crying. Her eyes were so filled with tears they almost appeared blue--a chrome that showed the devastation most. Her weak steps closed the gap between us, her hands fell to my chest to stabilize herself as she leaned forward, a kiss pressed to my jaw. She stepped back and I couldn't hinder the hope that rose in my chest.

That same hope that lingered that if we ever saw each other again, we wouldn't just be two ghosts. Two ghosts staring at what brought their hearts death in the first place.

... . . . . . .

Sweet Creature

... . . . . . .

"Pretty Woman, don't make me cry," Her hands traced her figure as she swung her hips, her eyes dead locked on mine.

Bedroom eyes, sensual slips of the tongue.

"Pretty Woman, don't walk away, hey, okay, if that's the way it must be, okay," her arms tossed up into the air through a wild whirl.

Casually charming, cautiously caring.

She reached out for me, guiding me through a goofy waltz. Her hands were never still, always traveling somewhere else--her hair, my shoulders, her hips, my cheeks.

She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close to rest her cheek on my chest, "It's okay. I have them too."

"Pretty woman," I mutter down to her.

Dancing in refrigerator light and kisses in the kitchen, not a wink of sleep earned as we watched the sunrise and its rays ravage the skyline.

A sight to behold--mangled swirls of sunshine, fiery roots, floral irises. Nature's beauty. An art piece to hold close--thin features, soft skin, freckles to find. Natural beauty.

Twisted telephone cord through tight embraces, orders through dangerously distracting doe eyes. Rushed to bring home sugary sweets. Rushed home to a dream, rushed home in hopes it's not just a dream.

No deep discussion, only playful banter. No push to plow through my sulci and nip at my neurons. It was always harder when we argued, it was always easier when we kissed. Syrupy sentiments punctuated with sticky kisses. Forkfuls of fluff, mouthfuls of mush.

Light, breezy.

Sunshine.

She brought me home, she was my home. I always thought about her and how we don't speak enough. I always thought about her and how no matter how much we spoke, it never would've been enough.

What a sweet creature, what a dream.

... . . . . . .

Only Angel

... . . . . . .

"Harry," she said, my face only contorting into lusty astonishment, "Take me upstairs."

My brows dropped in shock, my lips curved up in a devilish smirk, "You're in for it now," I husked out against the shell of her ear, "Once I have you, I'll never want to stop."

I was careless, flicking off lamps clumsily as we stumbled out with lude touches. I was calculated, twisting the lock meticulously to ensure its closure before we wandered up the metal stairs with creaks punctuating each kiss.

When we reached the top of the platform I hoisted her up over my shoulder, snickers and scarce snorts erupted from her. I brought a switch smack to hit her ass which elicited a breathy gasp past her lips.

"Don't be dramatic," I taunted as I continued to unlock the door.

It all happened so fast, and yet I remember all of it. How could I not, the angel she was for everyone else was nowhere to be found. She was a devil in between the sheets.

I dropped to lay next to her and she met my eyes through drooping lids as she dragged her finger through my release and brought it to her lips. She dragged it across her lips and smiled seductively.

I shook my head, my voice raspy and rough, "You little temptress."

She grinned back at me with eyes weighing heavier and heavier as sleep began to overtake her. Silky sweet Sunshine filled slumber. That was where I was headed and I didn't ever want to wake up. I wanted to die that night, I wanted to die as happy as I was then.

... . . . . . .

Kiwi

... . . . . . .

She sat on the bench under awning as the rain pelted on the ground. It was a crisp fall rain, one that's wind bit at her skin to leave gooseflesh behind. She scribbled down anything and everything that came to her mind as she took a long drag on a cigarette.

A drag that'd shown how many packs of cigarettes she'd worked through in her life, few if any.

She lifted her wrist to see the hands of her watch tick down the time remaining in her shift. She quickly tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped out the burning stick until the glowing embers and ash were all that remained. Her pen folded back up into her notebook and stuck under her arm as she stood from the bench.

She took in the soaked streets and the drowned out noises of chatter as the cars drove by, a chill ran down my spine at the thought of her car gazing. The icy handle of the bookstore was taken in her fingers to open. I saw the flush of relief that was casted on her when the warm air hit her skin as the door shut behind her.

She sat down in her chair and flipped through pages of a book that I'd eventually come to know as a collection of Dickinson poems. Her eyes danced across the page as I opened the door and the bell chimed above. I tugged an umbrella closed as her eyes scanned me, taking me in, absorbing me as she did the rest of the world for later reflection.

I walked down the aisle of music books, scanning the shelves disinterested. I'd pick up a book, look at the cover and flip through a few pages in the middle before setting it back down on the shelf. I could hear her footsteps creak the floor below her as she went up and down the different aisles and replaced the books to where they belonged.

She made her way into the aisle I was in and came to stand next to me, sliding a book onto the shelf. She replaced the book and turned to me, "What kind of book are you looking for? If you like music I'd suggest a music history book maybe rather than a biography. They usually go into more detail about the different genres and periods of music." Her voice was as friendly as her smile.

Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck.

I lifted my head from the book I was currently half-assed skimming to give her a glare and a roll of my eyes, "Yeah, I know, I'm not bloody thick." I noticed the slight widening of her eyes, my voice caught her off guard.

She gave me a half-hearted tight lipped smile that dripped with fallacy as she spun on her heel to make her way back towards the front.

I find the book I came for, the Louis Armstrong biography, and head to the desk. She's sitting in her seat, ever so slightly rocking back and forth in her spot as she read the syllables that I'd come to find out were near and dear to her heart.

I drop the book onto the desk with a thud, her sight lifting to meet my own viridescent gaze, one of stoic nature and coldness. Her vision darted back and forth--down to the book's front cover and up to my eyes.

"Armstrong fan?" She raised a brow as she flipped the book to check the back cover for its price shown on a pink sticker.

"I guess you could say that," I muttered. I was lying, I was and continue to be a fan.

She typed the price into the register and printed a receipt for five dollars. The receipt was placed past the book's warped, worn cover and her eyes came back to mine. "If you like the book you just have to bring back the money, if you want to bring it back just drop it in the box by the front."

She was kind, I could see it in her eyes, and at the time that infuriated me, I couldn't understand it. She was driving me crazy, but I was into it, kind of. I thought I was losing it, it was so crazy. I shook my head to rid myself of the thoughts as my sight fell to the ground and I slid the book under my arm, "I'm not new, I know how it works."

Out of my peripheral I saw her shrug her shoulders, "Hey, I just work here."