Maybe you would be easier
to forget if you weren't such
a good person, if you didn't
have such a great smile or
if I didn't love your mother
so much. Maybe you would
be easier to let go if you didn't
look so good in a suit or if you
didn't share my taste in music
and didn't read Fitzgerald, or
if you weren't so delightfully
arrogant and so charming.

But you are all those things,

and you are all I think about.

sometimes i think about the days of

me softly singing in the kitchen
you humming crying lightning on the subway

you watching my shadow undress
me tracing your smile with my thumb

you painting me in a bed of red roses and
filling a bathtub with more foam than water

and me burning your toast
and you bringing me coffee

and late nights watching stars together
coming up with new names for constellations
drinking cheap bottles of wine and

laughing until we couldn't laugh
any more.

watching films and crying and crying
and drinking too much diet coke

paper planes we folded out of
little pink napkins during a long lunch

and all of our favourite
break-ups
make-ups

long-distance phonecalls
pillow fights

singing duets from moulin rouge
in the streets, in the rain or

writing each other short poems
on coffee cups
or train tickets.

it has been
forever,

we are no longer those two people,
carelessly, recklessly, blissfully happy;

the world changed us and made us
into realists

and everything became uglier
less rose-coloured through red wine
or filtered through stained glass

but

your eyes still shine and make the sky
seem less blue in comparison

and i still sing in the kitchen
sometimes

and sometimes that's
enough.

Part of me wanted the
complicated and intense
"Heathcliff and Catherine"
kind of love, that happens
once in a lifetime;

but

most of me wanted
to listen to the kind of
music that makes me
nostalgic,
melancholic,

or dance with you
in the streets of
Barcelona.

This is not a
fairy tale, or
something else
worth
believing in;

but

maybe we don't need
happily ever after;


just a little

happy.

I believe in heaven
and hell because
I've seen both;

I have lived in hell
for several years,

heaven came with you.

You were nothing but
a game to me; a nice
way to spend time.

I was the same to you,

we never fell in love but

maybe we should have.

Perhaps you fail to see
the beauty of broken things.

Beauty is the pen that has run out
of ink but is still kept in a
desk drawer.

It is the chipped teacup that
drinks comfortably,

the last ice in an empty glass
at 4 o'clock in the morning.

It is the comfort of a broken
clock, because it never tells you
where to be or what to do,

and the door that doesn't close
but reminds you to keep
your heart open.

It is the broken steps in the stair
that you choose to skip

and the tears in your eyes as
you stare into the broken
bathroom mirror because you
never seem to know your worth.

When I look at you, I don't see
a broken girl,

something that needs to be fixed.

When I look at you I see
beauty

in every scar and imperfection,
and I will gently kiss your smile,

wipe away your tears and tell you,

you're not broken;

you
are
perfect.

I think I could be
perfectly
blissfully
happy

married to a poet,

because words are the only things
I ever truly loved.

I don't care what people think
of what I say,

just as long as they can
hear me.

I asked you out because
I wanted to, because I hate
missing opportunities
and because my only goal
in life is to live it

regretlessly.

I wrote a love letter to literature.

It is the only thing I have
believed in.

Let's go out tonight
to a small restaurant outside of the city,
order every dessert on the menu.

Let's drink a bottle of wine
improvised cocktails
Irish coffee.

Then we will walk through
empty streets,
fill them with laughter,
slightly drunk on love
and whiskey.

We will sit on your front porch,
I will kick off my high heels
and we'll share a cigarette
because it's like sharing
warmth
and light, with just the right
amount of destruction.

We will be so delightfully
ordinary
together,

so blissfully happy under
ordinary starry skies.

We will see the things we
don't usually notice because
they're suddenly
beautiful.

Let's go out tonight.

Even if tonight is all
we'll have.

More than anything, I want
to know you,

The shape of your face in
the morning light.

To know the way that your hands
softly tremble,

what makes you smile and
keeps you up at night.

I want to know what you think
of Shakespeare,
all your favourite films and
your favourite quotes.

I want to know if you are close
with your mother,
and all of your childhood
anecdotes.

I want to know your darkest secret,
I want to know your deepest fear.

Your hopes and dreams, and what
brings you joy, how to quietly make
your frown disappear.

I want to know with what hands
to hold you,
and sing you to sleep with your
favourite song.

I want to make you breakfast
every morning, and know
where you feel you most
safely belong.

I want to know how to touch you,
kiss you,

I want to know what will break
your heart.

I want to know every weakness
and scar and your
favourite forms of modern art.

I want to know if you like
the phone, and whether you like
the taste of gin.

I want to know if you like the ocean
and every city you've ever
been.

I want to know your favourite
language, and every place
you still want to go.

And that all I learn will make me
love you.


There's nothing I would not
want to know.

Who needs words when we've got
chemistry?

Without you, my life
would be easier.

Without you my life
would be
worthless.

Sometimes I get
                                       lost
inside my mind,

but I know you'll always
find me.

When we first met I was
enchanted
by your curly black hair
and your beautiful blue
eyes. You were wearing
a shade of mint green
and you were a little shy,
your voice was soft and
sweet and you said you
had a boyfriend.

I didn't care;

The only thing I needed
to know about you was
how you drink your coffee,

and if you would like to
have some together
some time.

Late at night when I
talk to you,
I can feel my fingers
quietly tapping my keyboard,
and every letter is filled
with expectations;
every word is a part of me,
moments of loving you
spill onto my screen and
you won't see anything
but a casual 'good night'
or a question about your day,
you won't notice the careful
punctuation or how every
letter was typed with consideration
and love and crushed dreams.
The beauty of the modern world
is that I can love you without
you ever knowing that your
words silently break my heart.

Coffee is a food group
there is never enough whiskey
and I am always out
of spare change,
and there are no happy endings;
just happy afternoons
with you.

                                                             ­                    Reality is
                                                             ­                      perhaps
                                                             ­                      subjective

Why do I keep
hitting myself
on the head
with a hammer?

Probably because
it feels so good
when I stop.