Breathe Breathe for me darling. You're lying right beside me, even when it feels like you're miles away. I hang onto your every breath, because when you open your eyes and look at me, I can't breathe. So breathe for me darling, Because I can't breathe without you.

The Songbird High atop the chestnut tree, I sit. The leaves shuddering in the breeze As a voice, like a peal of bells, sounds, Followed by a glimpse of golden Sunlight, illuminating her return. Her return brings comfort. It Brings reassurance and respite in The form of a silver melody. Ever has it been there, and ever Should it stay, to sing me to sleep And lull my tears away. Countless of times have the notes of her tune soothed the pricks on My delicate skin, soft touches Wiped the dribbles off of my chin, Quelled anger in my heart and Pushed me forwards, through the start. But one day, one day, One day my wings will take me Away. Away from home and everything I have ever known. And even though I may be A million miles away, it will be Your song which sings me to sleep And lulls my tears away. Because even though I may be A million miles away, Here by your side forever I will stay.

One Thousand Lights One thousand people And two thousand hands, One thousand lanterns waiting In one thousand stands. One thousand lanterns flying, And one thousand smiles smiling, At one thousand lights in the sky. ☆〜☆〜☆〜☆〜☆

The Mailbox Cara Daniels was someone who did not like her #life. At all. Everyday was filled with mud coloured coffee, mountains of files and perverted co-workers. Today, Thursday morning, was not any different from last week's Thursday, which was no different from every other day in the week. In short, it was starting terribly, and was probably going to end terribly. She had had about ten minutes to shower, dress, pull dirty blonde hair into a ponytail and run out of her door to catch the train into the city. Rushed, always rushed. Arriving at her bleak, monochrome office, she sighed, ignoring the daily glare she received from the ancient receptionist and heading straight for the coffee machine, probably her only friend in this place. The coffee, as always, was disgusting. It was too bitter and too watery and just gross in general. Walking to her desk, she ignored the wolf whistles she got from the 'bachelor' side of the room and sat down, inwardly groaning at the piles of pristine white files on her desk. But this was what happened everyday. She was used to it. Used to it, and absolutely miserable. Going home that Thursday wasn't any different either. Crammed into a corner on the train, someone breathing smoke into her face, not getting the hint despite the many exaggerrated coughs she performed. By the time she was walking up the path to the front door of her apartment complex, she was exhausted to the point of wanting to just collapse on the bench next to the large row of mailboxes. But that didn't change much either. She dragged her sore, heeled feet over to her mailbox and sighed as she grabbed the few envelopes. Bills, again. She slipped into the lift and slumped against the wall, closing her eyes as the box hanging precariously on a string lurched upwards, prompting her stomach to drop. Once in her apartment, the first thing she did was slump into one of the armchairs in the living room, kick off her shoes and read through her mail. Bills, more bills, work, blah, blah, blah. . . But she paused as she came to the last one. It was a plain white envelope, her name and address written in scrawled handwriting, and no return address. Curious, she pried open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was a handwritten letter, written in the same scrawled handwriting as was on the envelope. She glanced through the letter an fought the urge to smile. 'Dear neighbour, Hey! Just wanted to say, you looked beautiful today. In fact, I see you every morning, and you look beautiful then, too, but I've always been too shy to say anything. I did notice, though, that you don't look happy that often. I'd like to see you smile once in a while, so I decided to write you this cheesy letter. Hope it helps! -N. ' Whoever it was, they sounded like either a kid or a creep. But still, she smiled. There was a change in her day. The next few days went on as usual, not counting Sunday, which Cara spent asleep. Until, Wednesday afternoon, she got home and discovered a second handwritten letter. She rolled her eyes, but once she got into her armchair she read it anyway. 'Dear neighbour, Hey again! Please don't think I'm creepy, because I swear, I'm not. You looked lovely again today, just thought you should know. Oh, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching you ruin Steve's chances of ever having children. Made my day. Talk soon, -N. ' She felt herself blush at the fact that someone had seen her kicking the pervert upstairs where it hurts. But she was glad that her writer approved, because Steve had it coming. And that brought her to the question at hand. Who was her writer? Who was N? Negative thoughts of old perverts and kidnappers quickly swam through her mind, but she pushed them out just as fast. Her #life sucked anyway, so why shouldn't she be allowed to hold on to the only thing that had managed to make her smile? And so she continued that way for a few weeks. She went to work, came back, and every third day she found a handwritten letter in her mailbox. Slowly, she even began to realise that she was excited when she came home on a third day, smiling even before she plucked the letter from the box. Each letter had something different written in it, from stories about how his day went, to simple comments about the weather and the colour of her hair. He had also opened up about himself, so she knew now that his favourite food was spaghetti, he liked playing darts, he was 25 (same age as her), enjoyed playing in lakes and liked orange juice. She, had also begun to write back, in her own way. She placed her own letter to him in her mailbox, and, sure enough, from the next letter which arrived she could tell that he found it. 'Dear neighbour, Cara, right? Hah, I got your letter! (Wasn't snooping around in your mailbox or anything, I swear) Now we can actually talk back and forth, instead of this constantly depressing one-sidedness. Looking forward to hearing more about you! Love, -N. ' The letters back and forth continued like that for a while, becoming daily. She still didn't know who he was, or where in the apartment complex he lived, but he sure was more talkative than the coffee machine at work. One time, after a couple of months of the letters, they stopped. Cara tried not to be worried. After all, they were just letters. That was what she kept telling herself day after day, but slowly her work became tiresome again. Instead of excitement at the end of the day, she felt disappointment, and after a few weeks she wondered whether she should just give up. After all, who knows, maybe he found a girlfriend. After around two or three weeks, Cara realised that she was in love. Yes. In love. Slowly, she had fallen in love with the man behind the scrawled handwriting she knew so well. It sounded crazy, not knowing him, but she couldn't help the way her heart beat quickly at the anticipation of a letter, at the opportunity to write back to him again. So she held onto hope and crossed her fingers each day for another letter to come. And finally, one did. 'Dear neighbour, Sorry! I was away on a buisness trip for a while, and I didn't get the chance to post the letter I had written to explain. Man, I really missed reading your letters, so I hope you don't hate me or anything. Talk soon, okay? Lots of love, -N. ' She squealed and jumped about 3 feet into the air when she got it, attracting attention from other people on the street, seeing that, in her excitement, she had torn it open the moment she spotted it. Blushing, she ran as best as she could in a pencil skirt up four flights of stairs before bursting into her apartment, knocking over three pencil pots before grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbling back a response. She all but flew back down the stairs and to the many mailboxes before shoving her hasty letter into her mailbox. Satisfied, she turned around and began to skip back to the entrance. And froze. Her eyes grew wide, and she gasped before racing back to the mailbox she had just shoved her letter into. Number 27. Her mailbox... Was number 26. Crap. She pushed her hand as far as it could go through the letter gap and cursed herself when she couldn't reach the nasty little thing. How had she managed to get her letter in the wrong mailbox as well as in the locked letter section? She and N always left each other's letters in the parcel holder of her mailbox, which was never locked. She had really screwed up this time. Sighing, she removed her hand and rubbed the sore skin on the back before walking dejectedly back to her apartment. The next morning, her really, really wonderful job had her up and out of her door at four-thirty to prepare for some big important meeting later that day. Joy. She groaned as she pushed the entrance door open with her back, holding her bag to her chest as she tried in vain to keep her eyes open. She stood there for a while, debating whether she should just quit her job and become homeless. But someone standing at the mailboxes made her pause. He was cute, she supposed, with his bedhead of dark brown wavy hair, quickly done up suit and scruffy converse. Hearing the door click behind Cara, he turned his head to look at her with lazy blue eyes, before swivelling his head back to his mailbox, a blush creeping up his neck. He quickly swung open his mailbox and shuffled through his letters, pausing at one in particular. Cara, who had been casually walking forward, spotted the number on his mailbox. 27. Her eyes snapped to the letter in his hand, and she gasped out loud, covering her mouth. 'No, that's-!' But she was interrupted by his outburst of laughter. 'So, you finally figured it out,' he turned toward her, waving her letter, a smile on his face. She stared at him in shock for a moment, before taking a tentative step forwards. 'Y-You're N?' She asked, and he grinned, ruffling his already messy hair. 'Yep, my name is actually Julian, though. Nice to meet you,' he grinned sheepishly, and Cara felt herself blush. Was this the man she fell in love with? 'Come on, if you want I'll walk you to the station.' She smiled shyly and quickly fell into step beside him. 'So, have you been living across from me this whole time?' She questioned, and he laughed. 'Yeah, I guess so. That's where the "N" comes from, I'm your neighbour. You get me?' Cara laughed at that, and he intwined his fingers with hers. This was definitely the man she fell in love with. 'You know,' she started, feeling confident. 'I think I might have fallen in love with you.' He met her soft brown eyes and grinned as she blushed, squeezing her hand in his. 'I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you too, Cara.' Cara blushed even harder and sighed. 'And love was in front of me the whole time.' Julian leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. 'Want to ditch work and head out to the city today?' She took less than a fraction of a moment to decide before letting him pull her along, their hands still clasped together, the morning light still white and early, but promising nonetheless.

Little Gifts She sat patiently at the kitchen table, a mug of cold tea wrapped in her pale, slender hands. With blank grey eyes she watched as raindrops chased each other down the window, getting faster and faster, hearing the drone of the rain getting louder and heavier until the dark water on the street outside the gate was deep enough to cover her toes. She sighed and stood up, walking into her monochrome kitchen, where she poured the contents of her cup into the sink. Looking up at the clock, she let out another sigh. The postman wouldn't be coming today. She walked out of her kitchen, tugging at the locks of dark hair which had slipped out of their bun. Her bare feet made no noise on the wooden parquet, and stayed silent even as she passed onto the thick carpet in the living room. The calendar above the fireplace read April 15th, yet what she expected hadn't come. She walked further into the cold room, her eyes taking in what she already knew was there. The empty spot on the far left of the sofa, the reading glasses on the coffee table, stiff from disuse; the history books which lined the bookshelves, dusted yet untouched. However, the mantlepiece was lined with little wonders. Twelve little gifts from twelve different countries, each one having arrived on the 15th of every month. A crystal Eiffel tower from Paris, a two inch Buddha figurine from India, coffee beans from Brazil. Behind each gift was a folded letter, the same ones she had sent every month, the same ones that returned with a gift, every month. She carefully picked up the last three which had been returned to her, her expression staying blank as she read her own writing on the near-blank pages. 'Where are you now?' 'I miss you.' 'Are you ever coming back?' She thought about the last letter she had sent, the two words she had never written to him before, the ones she wrote in the midst of her anguish at the realisation that he had been gone for more than a year. 'Come home.' The rain outside continued to pour, and the girl in the living room put back the letters, dusted the books and polished the reading glasses. She had always dreaded the day when the 15th came and her gift never arrived, but now it had come and she was relatively calm about it. She would send another letter, and wait for May to arrive. She padded silently over to the desk in the corner of the room, and, sitting down on the stool, picked up a blank sheet of paper and a pen. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and twirled the pen in her fingers, bringing the tip to rest just above the white paper before her. A slight noise interrupted her, and she put down the pen. Although barely audible, she stood up at the sound of a key turning in the lock. Her lower lip trembling, she stepped out into the hallway, facing the door. It swung open, letting in wind and rain. A tall figure stepped through and shooking his wet hair like a dog, spraying the walls with rainwater. He looked up at her and grinned, his bright eyes crinkling with joy. 'Hey,' He said, dumping his soaked bag on the floor. 'I'm home.' This was the last gift she received, it was by far the best one yet, and it arrived perfectly on time.