Finding a lover is effortless
for some people.
They only want a few things:
Someone attractive, kind,
funny or rich.

But
I desire
something so much deeper.

I want

an intelligent mind
that wakes up thoughts in me
I didn't realize were hibernating.

I want

to converse, analyze and debate
without being conscious of
the sun rising and falling
between our words.

I want

to make a witty remark
at a coffee shop
so he can reply sarcastically
just for me to jab back immediately
and for him to comeback back playfully
until we're both laughing
stomachs shaking
spit flying
the whole store staring
and we leave
without coffee

I want

our hands to stitch together
perfectly
like two lost puzzle pieces;
one found under a couch cushion
one found inside a junk drawer.
The rest of the puzzle has
already been thrown away
but
these two pieces remain
and they fit.

I want

to fall in love together
then together fall in love with
art, museums, songs, poems
T.V shows, radio jingles,
greek food, backroads,
our mutual hatred for pop culture,
doing the dishes (as long as he washes and I dry)
wrong turns, piled up laundry, life.
Just fall in love with life.

I want

to hurt with him

I want

to save the world with him

I want

to meet, see, understand
and experience all that is foreign
with him.

I think it will only take us meeting
and it'll only be history and happiness from then on.

It's just a matter of if a love like that could ever be
and if a love like that could ever be for me.

Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****,
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

how is it that you can be in love and think you have met the single greatest human,
and then you're not in love anymore and you suddenly meet so many new people
(they smell the single on you, i swear)
and a lot of the time they're boring
but then there are multiple kind souls and maybe you can make new friends and maybe not everyone ***** and maybe life is a continuous spectrum of meeting people your dumb young self promotes to the "greatest."
we are all young dumb ****** up vessels just
...trying...
hoping connections last and hoping the greatest one falls into place,
at least for a little while until you grow out of each other again
and start over

i always relate more
to the songs about
not having someone
than having someone

it's been another year
my hair's a little longer
the soles of my shoes
a little smoother
scars a little
deeper

the dip in my mattress
goes further than
where i sleep at
night it sinks to
where i spend some
long days too

i mostly try to keep
my depressive
indulgences
to a minimum

(not that
it works)

but some days only
come once a year
and what better time
to feel sorry for yourself
than the date of
your own death?

ill write about everything you hate
about yourself and make it sound like
the most beautiful ******* thing.

The ink absorbs into the paper as my
thoughts become words,
my words become art,
my art becomes a story
and my story is no ordinary story.
No, it's much more than that. It's me.
So, read between the lines.

- H.H.

And tonight we sit on a rooftop,
Sharing each other's beautiful soul,
Understanding the undivided silence,
As we fill the gaps with small laughter,
And I will watch your silhouette,
Slowly devour the moonlight,
While you tell me stories of places,
We have never been,
And I will watch your mouth,
Form words as you explain,
The universe to me.

You make me smile in a garden,
So you could watch all the flowers bloom,
I want to hold you tight,
And create our own gravity,
Darling, you are just so made for me.