I have stacks and heaps of poems I have misread.

Where I filled the blanks

which were not meant to be filled.

Where I was supposed to stand stupefied by absurdity of life

I tried to find some order , some reason.

Where I was supposed to sit and listen to worries

I gave advice.Or worse, interfered in lives not mine.

It was always about what I could give to life,

than what life has given to me.

So I have suffered long

trying to fill silences in heart

and words in blank pages.

And never to have made a difference.

Never to have known the beauty

of being incomplete and unfinished.

Tell me is it strange
to be someone I am not
to find my true self?

The first time we said hello, it was 3am on a Saturday and we were both at home working on our respective arts. Some malign god of internet romance decided to connect our two phones together from across the ether.

          Three weeks later, you gripped me tight as I stepped off a bus and in that moment I felt like thin ice. Not standing on thin ice, Like I was made of it. Like if every shard of my being was leaning inwards, cracked yet holding itself together. I was afraid, yet the most alive I've ever been.

People say I'm not the best hugger. Those people would be right. But when our two solar systems pulled themselves apart you whispered to yourself. "I want to do that again."
People talk about the one that got away. Those people don't know the first thing about love; Love, love is a train that twists and turns and honestly by the time you get where you're going you don't know who is going to be standing on that station when you get off. Love is hoping that even though she leaves there is some forgotten deity that will pull her back into your arms when the time is right. Love is accepting that she, won't be pulled back. That maybe when the day is right; you'll see her painting in a gallery. Love is hoping that on that day, She'll still have your poems on her shelf.