If you could possibly count
the number of stars that spatter
themselves across the nighttime sky,
perhaps then you might know
the number of days
I'd like to spend with you. 

Tell me, would you mind very much
if I asked you to share tomorrow
with me, and each and every
tomorrow after that?

Most of the time you say
silly, fun, loveable things
in a sing-song voice
meant to convey whimsy.
But sometimes,
when we're just lying there
under the covers
or riding along in your car,
you get more serious.
You'll speak words that carry
heavier meanings,
and your voice deepens
so that I know I'm hearing
things meant only for me.
In those moments,
****, I can't break my gaze
away from your eyes.
You capture my full attention
with that special tone,
your own secret
communication straight
through to my heart.

I've searched for the meaning of life,
oh darling, have I searched. 
Years have passed as I've tried
every method I could find,
                                                             little
things and large gestures of
madness meant to bring about
some iota of worth. Ah, darling, I
                                                               did
everything I thought could sponsor
happiness. I searched for significance
in the bottoms of bottles, though all
                                                                    I 
ever found there was yet more
emptiness. That didn't keep me from
trying over and again. I wanted to
                                                           know
that my life was important, but
felt ever more worthless the more
I searched. Every approach
                                                                 I'd
attempted brought me ever closer
to nothingness. In searching for 
the true essence of life instead I'd 
                                                              find
inconsequence, meaninglessness. 
Oh, but I tried, darling. I sought
out every drug I could, trying
to free my mind from itself. But
                                                                   it
never succeeded. No matter how
many formulated chemicals 
slid down my throat or up my nose,
I only became momentarily numb. 
None brought any true peace to
my life, took me even a bit closer 
                                                                  in
my quest for value. Determined,
I decided I would cut the meaning
out, bleed it from myself. Digging
deep within my veins brought me
                                                                   a
convenient comfort, but even that
was short-lived. Oh darling, did
I tire of searching. You see, I 
had given up my crusade until
that moment, darling, I saw you
                                                           smile.

I dreamt of her again last night.
                              Time heals all wounds.
It's been a while since I've relived
her in my sleep so I guess that's
partially true. But only partially,
because the shattering of my heart has
yet to lessen with each awakening.
                              This year makes five.
Five years later and I'm still trying
to learn how to live without her.
Who do you confide in when the one
you ran to is the person taken so
suddenly from you? In my dreams
she comes alive once more. Not a mere
memory, but a smiling, laughing,
breathing being. I get to experience
her presence for just a few precious
moments. Upon waking I'm smiling,
having just spent time with my best
and closest friend. For about five
seconds the illusion remains before
it crashes down around me, and
I'm left looking at the shards remaining.
The more desperately I try to pick
them up, the deeper I am cut.  
                               It hit me like a ton of bricks.
This saying at least, holds true.
It's a cruel reality having to relive
that moment you learn of your loss.
So I'm left to myself, curled up and
clutching my chest from the pain of
losing her all over again, crying heavy
sobs from the depths of my soul.
When it's over and I've been able to
compose myself, carefully replace all
of my pieces, I'm able to be thankful.
The pain is terrible, yes, but something
I've lived with for years. It never
lessens, we just become better at
bearing it. But to have those few
moments of living with her again,
even if only in my dream world, well,
anyone who has ever lost someone
will tell you that they would give
just about anything for the chance
to see the persons face again.
                              *The pain is worth pleasure.

You said I broke your heart
     when I decided to leave,
but baby you broke mine
     every single day I stayed.
I couldn't stand by
     watching as you sat there,
     your soul collecting dust.
I'd beg you for more, to BE more,
     but my pleas went unnoticed.
So I cried silently to myself,
     crimson tears
     leaking from my veins.
And now,
     now that I've finally gone,
you've awakened to shudder
     off that layer of dust.
Tell me, baby,
     how could I be the one
     to break your heart
when I was obviously
     so irrelevant
     to your motivations.
Tell me, baby,
     why you didn't notice me
     bleeding, begging
     for your attention.
Tell me, baby,
     why was I not enough?

Tonight is a drinking night,
a need-to-not-think night,
because I need a break
from constant over contemplation.
Someone else take the wheel,
I'm going to take the bottle.
My brain is fried anyway,
perpetually assessing
every possible action
and the ensuing consequences.
**** it, I'm tired of this lie,
someone else drive for a while,
and let me sit to the side
while the road is chosen.
I'll be over there, drinking.

.                                                   I miss you.
Every morning when we part ways,
                                                    I miss you.
Throughout every day I'm thinking of you,
                      always,
                                                    and I miss you
until the moment we're together again.
My body misses yours
when we unwittingly pull apart
in the depths of our slumber,
and I seek you out sleepily,
needing to have you closer.
But most of all
                                                    I miss you
when I've been looking forward to you
because I've had a hard day
and my own frustration is exactly
what causes me to
                         push you
                                                    away.
I lash out at you,
and wind up missing you most
when we're side
                          by
                            side.

And in the moments that follow
I realize and regret my mistake,
but can never seem to correct
that crash course of action.
So I fold
      down
      deep
      into myself,
hoping with all of my might
that you won't one day grow tired
of this undeserved fight
and leave me
          crumpled
      in the dirt.
                  Not that I could blame you, really.

But please,
           oh please,
you really must know
the reason I try to learn
from my rash reactions
and grow as a person.
Look in the mirror
and you'll see it right away,
the very thing that keeps me
going each
            and every day.

I've given pieces of myself away
     over the years.  
I meet people and I love deeply,
     so I break off a piece of my heart
     and offer it up, my gift to them.
I've found my presents oft returned,
     unwanted, unused
     after their purpose had served.
So when we first met, sir,
     I had no intention
     of breaking myself further
     for you, only to be scorned.
But intentions be ******,
     for you didn't wait.
No, you sewed my pieces
     back together for me,
     without me even having to ask.
And so it is you, sir,
     who shall have the gift
     of the rest of my heart.
One little piece will never be adequate,
     and so I give to you,
     more and more every day.

"I want to go home,"
                                                                   she thinks
                                                                   while lying in her bed.
She moves through life,
                                                                   a marionette,
never actually living
anywhere outside her head.
Her mind is fully consumed
by dreams of a true home
          this
              mythological
                               place
which she's heard of
but has yet to know.
A quarter century of life
             crawls by
          before she notices.
The search for her home
         falls
               by
                  the
                    wayside,
                                                                   pushed aside.
In its place, the struggle for
mere survival.
But every night,
lying alone in her bed
as she sleepily sighs
it crosses her mind,
                                                                   "I want to go home."
Where is this "home" place
                                                                   she wonders?
Houses are not homes,
she knows this too **** well.
A thunderstorm gathers
within her soul
                                                                   until
finally, she crashes.
                                                                   "I can't take this hell."
A symbolic breakaway and
          a
           home
                    is
                     found
           suddenly,
                  quickly,
without so much as a warning sound.
It is not realized within any dwelling,
but a much simpler place:
            the fit beneath a chin,
            arms she's encircled within.
                                                                   "Home."
It takes on a higher meaning,
a more profound definition.
And there is simply
               no way, no way
she could have known,
had any premonition of the
                                                                   home
that would so easily grow
between their two souls
and make her, for once,
                                                                   at last,
                                                                   feel whole.
            "Sir, I feel at home with you,"
                        she sighs.
            "You are," he replies.
And she knows
                                                                   it's true.

It's one of those days
where I just can't fake my smiles.
I abhor everyone around me
and the very air against my skin
causes a friction that makes me flinch.
I can't ******* handle today.
Can we rewind,
start over,
so the sounds of their voices
don't grate on my brain?
Because it's one of those days
I simply can't take anymore of.
Please help me, I'm about to break.

Two pieces in the entirety of the world
     exist as separate parts of a single soul.
Together each portion that we are
     brings a clarity previously grasped for.
I taste you in the very air around me,
Sense your presence as it crowds mine,
And though we must eventually part,
know that we,
     the two moieties,
     exist in one rhythm.

I'm confused as to when my touch
changed from the thing you crave
to the thing that makes you turn away.
I've always heard you can have to much
of a good thing, and I guess it's true.
Because my hands no longer
seem to bring about that same reaction
they used to.
And I'm just left here, confused.

Some days
in the middle of getting ready
I'll have to stop and
go lie down for a few,
utterly exhausted
by the mere act of getting up.
These are the days
I know, I know,
****.
I'm depressed.

I have no strength
to face the day.
I want to call into work,
sorry, I just can't.
Go back to my bed,
let my blanket swallow me up.
Make a black hole of myself,
cease existing,
if only for a day,
just to recover myself again.

If I were to place you gently in my pocket,
would you mind very much staying there
and remaining always near?
So that in my moments of greatest need
you could pop your head up above the edge
and whisper tiny encouragements into my ear?

Let me tell you the story of how we slowly began to learn about one another in stolen moments of rushed conversation.  Let me tell you how bad you were for my work ethic, because I would find reasons to escape my area just to “happen” by yours.  And let me tell you how disappointed I was whenever you weren’t there.  Let me tell you about how happy I was when I discovered we have the same ******-up sense of humor, and how I loved that we could be awkward together without it being awkward at all.  Let me tell you about us discussing music and bands and the one time you walked up behind me and asked me a question about my taste in music and honestly, to this very day, that moment still takes my breath away because my whole world just stopped.  And let me tell you how, in that moment, I knew-oh baby, did I know, that I had fallen harder than I ever thought possible.  Let me tell you how you made me feel that romantic movie moment when I had called it all ******* before.  Let me tell you how my days began to revolve around sneaking in quick bits of conversation with you, and how everyone around us began to see I was falling hopelessly in love with you-more and more every day.

Love isn't spoken.
It's a silent conversation
     held in a glance,
or small gestures
     just to provide
     occasional reminders
     that you care.
Love isn't spoken.
It's sitting together
     and inching closer
     just to feel the touch
     of them against you.
Love is effort,
                concern,
       unbridled affection,
     and memorizing
     the sound of a voice
     until it becomes its own
     special kind of embrace.
No, love isn't spoken.

I'm not that girl,
the one your parents warned you about,
the one that lets secret promises slip between my lips as I make you sigh in ecstasy
only to have you realize every word said while I was between your thighs was a lie, intended only to provoke reaction at the moment.

I'm not that girl,
the one your friends warned you about,
the one that lets a secret wink fly at them as I hold your hand tight,
determined to keep you close
until the moment you aren't enough,
not that you ever know you aren't my one and only.

I'm that girl,
the one you don't think exists,
the one that wants to wake up extra early
for the sole purpose of rolling over
to settle a gentle kiss upon your lips,
then stretch and rise to prepare
a breakfast for you.

I'm that girl,
the one that wants to you surprise desserts just because,
so I'm not the only sweet thing you have
to come home to.

I'm not the girl that will break your heart, lie to you, or cheat on you.
I'm the girl that will stand by you, no matter what, because I want to be the one you lean on in times of need.
I don't want to cause you pain, I want to help fix your struggles.

I'm not that girl, the one all the guys lust after.
I want to be the girl you fall in love with.

I never know quite what to say
when people ask about you.
"Tell me about this new guy,"
they'll ****, curious as to who
has brought about this change in me. 

But how do I explain you to them?
Do I tell them you're the most
flawless amalgamation of parts
I've ever witnessed? That my soul 
recognized yours within seconds
and I was comfortable enough
to let you sew me back whole again?

I can't describe you adequately,
but I can guess that they see,
can tell by the change in me,
that baby, you're perfect for me.

I want to run my fingers through your hair, swirl my tongue around the lobe of your ear in just the right way so that I know it will drive you the best kind of crazy.

I wish to wake up early, throw on one of your oversized shirts, and cook you breakfast. Each time I reach for something high up you'll see my secrets that you alone know, and I get to start your day off right, well fed in every meaning of the word.

Let me be the person you come home to, the person you reveal every secret wish and desire to, so that I may be the one to help you make them become real life.

I'd like to be there to gently kiss away all of your teardrops, and talk you through all moments of weakness and self-doubt, reminding how simply extraordinary you are.

I will devote my entire being to bringing you happiness in every aspect of your life.

You found me as a frozen-over winter
     water infused into my veins
     slowly spreading through my limbs.
Me, turning to ice from within
     and you, you saw the icicles
     growing in my eyes.
You thawed me, a spring warmth
     steadily cracking the glaciers
     until they broke free
     from my arteries.
And I, I felt myself melt
     in your presence.

I slip,
and suddenly I'm underwater
gasping for air,
but my lungs are filled
with the spirits
I can't seem to exhale,
and there's no room
for the oxygen
I so desperately need.

I've fallen,
my brittle bones
cracked from the pressure
of trying to hold up
the demons on my back,
laughing as they press down.
I'll never be able
to stagger back up.

I'm dying,
torn from the inside,
my own voices
driving me to madness
from which there is no
possible escape.
help me, help me,
I don't want this fate.

Your words are glass that you keep spitting out at me
And they're ripping my skin to pieces
And your looks are grenades that you throw right at my face
And I'm picking shrapnel out of my hair
But I can't help myself
I've always liked the way you hurt me.

A casual conversation turned wrong in my head
and you haven't a clue the pain you've caused.
Fun facts about ourselves is what we seek.
               Tell me five things I like
you request
and I rattle off a dozen items, categories.
                Now you,
I playfully demand.
                Five things about me. Go.
You spit out two quickly,
then stutter back to the first.
I watch, confused, as you falter.
A third stumbles out and I flinch inwardly.
Cute clothes? I ******* hate clothes.
I have no clue why you'd say that,
pick something so completely
    off
as a gift for me.
You're actually really hard to buy for
you try to reason with me.
And I'm offended.
I lay out a myriad of options quickly
that anyone with a passing knowledge
could pick up on.
Any item to do with
literature
art
crafting
cooking
would do.
How do you not know this?
I thought you knew me better than anyone?
You know that I have this weird obsession
with globes, can't resist running my fingers
over their surfaces, dreaming of traveling
all along them in reality.
And yet you make no mention of them.
Or typewriters. Or sewing machines.
My two biggest gifts I've been begging for.
And I am heartbroken.
It has nothing to do with material goods.
I thought you knew me,
and apparently you don't.
And I realize also, you couldn't
name even five things.

I'm like a small child
stretching my arms up
and begging to be loved.
                                                  I love you.
                                                  I miss you.
I'm still waiting for you
to show me the proof
behind your words.
                                                  I wish I could
                                                  be there with you.
Come, be with me then.
Why do I keep waking
up alone?

I threw our old pictures away today,
     and cried as I did it.
I had held on for a bit,
     not knowing exactly how to
     proceed.
I knew I didn't really want to keep them,
     but our end wasn't drastic enough
     for a burning.
But today, today I finally threw them away.
And I have no clue why,
     but it's tearing me up inside.
And I have another confession while I'm at it.
The other day, when I came by
     to pick up the last of my stuff?
You were teary-eyed and I tried my hardest
     to remain hard-hearted,
     and we talked it out a little.
You said you miss me still
     and I felt like a *******
     because I replied only, "I'm sorry."
I didn't want to tell you I miss you too,
     didn't want to lie to you.
But then, as I was leaving,
     you shut the door behind me,
     and I remembered I wanted
     to remind you
     about taking me off the lease.
I turned and opened the door,
     and I saw you finally releasing
     what you had been struggling
     to hold back in my presence.
You were walking towards your room,
     sobbing.
And I witnessed that moment
     when it wasn't meant for me.
The sound of your cries
     and the shaking of your shoulders
     has haunted me since,
     an unwanted movie stuck on repeat.
And I walked away.
And I threw our old pictures out today.
And maybe I actually was meant to see
     that moment of unbridled agony,
     so that I too could feel some of your misery.
Because you loved me,
Still love me,
and I destroyed you.

I'm uncomfortable with everything,
lying here on your floor
at four in the morning
     in my world of blah. 
I've been awake for hours,
listening to your sounds…
     the breaths in
                     and out. 
And I just want to cuddle up,
push my back against your chest
     and feel my head rest 
     in its rightful place. 
But there's no room for me. 
     …story of my life.

I'm tired of feeling, bring back the
      numbness.
I'm fine, I promise.
Where do I put all these feelings when
     they overload my brain?
I've become one of those roadside
     ditches meant to catch the overflow
     of rain, except I'm flooded over.
I'm not okay.
I know how to seize control again
     though, with a stroke here and a
     stroke there.
I'm fine, I swear.
Don't worry baby, I've got this nifty
     little way of coping,
     it makes it all better.
I'm fine.  I'm fine.
I'm not okay.

"Write a poem," he says,
but what if there's no use
because all the best parts of me
are already used up
and I'm just a crinkled piece of paper
left to blow away with the wind.
I'm empty, nothing left
to inscribe on my pages,
no story remaining to tell,
and so I wait for a strong gust
to come and take me away,
anywhere, just away from here,
because I can't take this place anymore.
"Write a poem," he tells me,
but what if I can't
because my voice has been
taken away from me, and
I don't see a way to transcribe
what doesn't exist. It just isn't
possible, is it? So I'll sit here
and cry this ink onto my pages,
but to be completely honest,
I'm no longer attempting to create
a coherent story because I'm just
a used up, wrinkled slip of paper,
being thrown about without concern.
"Write a poem," he says,
but my words are all used up.

I never cared much
   for seeing myself
   until I saw my face reflected
   in the love within your eyes.
And I was never the biggest fan
   of my name
   until I found out how it tasted
   on your tongue.

Come to me, sir.
Undress and bare yourself,
a secret only I can know,
so that I may worship the
very essence of you.

Come to me, sir.
Lie here beside me and
let my fingers wind a
path down your body, testing
the clarity of my memory.

Come to me, sir.
So that my kisses may
rain down an electrical storm,
catching wildfire to every
surface of your skin.

Come to me, sir.
Come close to me, so that I
may be consumed whole
by the beauty of your soul.

I'm
         nowhere near perfect, and neither
         are you. You're quite a bit
         ridiculous, not usually serious,
         and addicted to your phone. I'm
         clumsy, unsure of myself to a
         fault, and my moods move faster
         than the minute hand on a clock.
         We're both a bit messy and goofy
         and ignorant of the weirdest
         things (like funnel cakes and the
         complicated workings of window
         blinds) but while we're on this
         ride with each other,
in
         this whole screamer of a carnival
         ride together, it works. You even
         out my moods and I'll force your
         attention to the real world and
         we'll help clean up the mess that
         we each have become over the
         years. You inspire me to be brave
         and we're seeing the world anew.
         In falling in
love
         with each other we fell in love
         with the very concept of life. A
         subtle change that made all the
         difference. I know nothing of
         what souls are made of, or indeed
         if they are truly even real. I've
         also never been a believer in
         soulmates, destiny, fate, or
         whatever you want to call it. I
         still don't know what I believe,
         but I know that when I'm
with
         you, sir, I believe in us. Our long
         serious talks, goofing off so that
         I'm laughing until I can't breathe,
         the way you look at me and I'm
         more sure of your love than the
         very fact that the sun will rise
         again tomorrow. I'd stay with you
         forever for these prize jewels, no
         matter what the rest of our lives
         hold. We're messy and imperfect,
         but to me
our
         journey together is the greatest
         novel ever written. I love that
         we're sharing so many firsts-not
         just in our relationship, but in our
         lives. Exploring the world with
         you is my all-time favorite
         adventure. I could never have
         imagined how quickly I would
         fall for you, but I'm never
         looking back. We fit together so
         exquisitely, cut from the same
         pattern, and I know that this is
         the kind of
love
         that is searched for, written about,
         and that makes hearts ache with
         longing. We've been lucky
         enough to find it, and I can tell
         because when we kiss,
         I taste forever on your lips.

'
                      I asked
you
                       to make love to me last night,
                      desperate for meaning
                      and searching for more
                      than just another ****.
                      You turned me down
                      and my mood instantly
crumpled
                      though I tried not
                      to let you see.
                      I swallowed the pain,
                      buried it down deep
                      until I could turn my back to you.
                      And though we fell asleep
                      as we always do,
                      you with your arms wrapped around
me,
                      with my face turned away
                      you couldn't see
                      the line of tears dancing their way
                      down my cheeks,
utterly
                      destroyed by being turned away by you.

He had me in the way he brushed
     his bangs from his view
And the way he made me see the world
     wholly anew.

He had me in the way he looked down
     at me and smiled shyly
So the world just melted away and my heart
     skipped away, flying.

He had me in the way his sense of humor
     was biting, sarcastic, and dark
Matching my own as we discovered
     our combined gift for snark.

He had me in the way his fingers moved
     gently over the guitar strings
And the way his voice deepened when
     he said certain special things.

He had me in the way he showed care
     in even the simplest gestures
Always going above and beyond with
     each step, every measure.

He had me in the way his laugh
     made my soul seem to dance
And how he could bring my world to a halt
     with even the quickest glance.

He had me,
     He had me,
          He had me at hello.

So I'm saying my final farewell here
     to all that I've known before
And maybe in the process I've shed
     a tear or two.
But goodbyes are never easy, you know.
Try not to be sad for me though, dear.
Because, in all honesty,
This is the most liberated I've ever been.
I'm saying goodbye to the past
     and all it stands for.
No "see ya later" here, for I never intend
     to come full circle.
This is a one-eighty, not a three-sixty
I'm turning it all around
And I'm sorry if you feel I've changed
     too drastically
But maybe the truth is you just
     never truly knew me.