Why do I laugh instead of cry?
when things turn to dust,
when I've forgotten how to speak,
or when I've cut myself open,
when I'm barely able to see,
when I think I might not last,
or when I know things look bleak,
when my tears never go uninterrupted,
when they're coated in a roaring laugh,
why do I always manage to look up,
and stop myself from feeling so sad?

It's always been a struggle
to make my mind and soul agree,
and maybe that's how it's supposed to be,
but honey, let me tell you,
I've felt things that just didn't sit well,
and thought things that did,
and thought things that just didn't sit well,
and felt things that did,
but for once, sweetheart,
my two halves can agree,
cause I don't feel any dissent when I say,
you're the only one for me.

The first vision you ever had for me was blue,
albeit, a bit hazily speckled across my canvas,
sparsley separated from the rest of the daunting white,
but it wasn't enough.

You pondered it for a few minutes but thought better of yourself,
so you cleaned up the blue and added red instead.

Oh red, what a wonderous color,
but over the years you've diluted it to pink,
and that's okay, it suited me best anyway.

You couldn't be sure of your inital sketches,
lined in yellow across my sides,
and so you would work, rework,
and work again; and that was fine.

I've always found it funny,
you know,
how your pallette can be so so very small,
and yet create so many different works,
I wonder how you know which of us go together;
to line your halls with canvases, different and alike,
how are we to make such a satisfactory gallery?

Once, not too long ago,
I met a man, and I think you wrote him in green,
lathered the sides with a smooth ink,
and clumped, in oil, a bright orange near the bottom,
and I think he hopes no one notices the edge,
but I've always found it to be the most beautiful.

It's rather peculiar, really,
to see one color morph into another,
for a shape to become something much larger,
and to see the techniques mimicked in a chain,
a group of us, only linked by the initial movements,
brushed over so many times we might just forget.

Each of us,
a work of art,
separated only by years,
colors,
and life's rotations.

Why do I always stop?
Why do I hold my breath?

My mind is screaming to tell you everything.

How when it's quiet, and the lighting is just right, your hair shines in an almost golden brown halo at the top,
and how when you speak, the sound drifts off into a slight hum,
but when your eyes meet mine I cannot say it.

How when I think of you, I hide my face in my frigid hands and I feel my cheeks run hot with blood,
and how much I've always loved your determined face, with furrowed brows and pursed lips,
but instead I look at you with a meek, silent smile.

How I nearly tear up at the thought of my life leading up to this moment with you,
and that it makes up for every time I have ever felt afraid or broken,
but I never muster up the courage to tell you...

How the reason I always look at you is because I want to appreciate all of you, and I'm afraid I'll miss something,
and I wish I weren't so shy as to always write you love letters and poems, instead of verbalizing it to you,
but I always get stuck.

How I thought today twenty times over that I wished to say I love you,
and that I think your smirks might just **** me,
and maybe your hands are just feathers because they move so gracefully across the piano keys,
but I didn't mention it.

How could I?
I'm a never-ending trainwreck of the mouth.
Once I start, I can't finish; I'll never say it all.
So I don't.

But....
I want to.
I want to look you in the eyes and instead of fumbling with my hands, my ring, or looking down and away from you, I want to clearly say this...

How the only thought in my mind that kept me from shaking incessantly during an anxiety attack was you,
and how in the silence of my room I just knew life would get better, IS better,
and how you keep me from disrespecting myself,
and how I think I couldn't imagine a lifetime where I didn't meet you,
oh I couldn't, I wouldn't.

How the other day, when I was folding my clothes, I stopped.
I felt a rush of joy overcome me and I just didn't tell you, I couldn't even say it out loud to myself,
but **** it, I'm in love with you.

“Hush..hush..hush”


Well not today, my lovely, darling, babe...

These stitches you lovingly laced in my lips,
I'm throwing them away.

Along with the fluttering butterflies, long dead anyways,
Saccharine smiles, wilted rose bouquets,

Looks like it's about to rain.

But I brought an umbrella, what about you?

What a shame, your suit is brand new!

And you just got your hair done today?

How could this happen to you?
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I wonder if these raindrops remember us,

How it was,
Before it wasn't,

Before dancing in the rain drowned in the flood,
And love wasn't lost in the waves.

Sharks haunt these waters now,
Flattery lining their fangs,

Looking for starry-eyed babes in the wood to play with and entertain.
.
.
.
Until you don't care anymore,
And I'm here to look pretty and brighten your day.

But I still have something to say, my love,
For I've finally grown my own fangs.
And I'm tired of being a pretty show dog,
Tired of being contained.

One day, you'll look around and see that you're missing someone, something,
And I'll be happy, dancing, beloved, far far away,

And you'll be in some pain,

And It'll be far too late,

But maybe then you'll realize what you let wash away.

A warm tingling,
crawling up your spine,
yelling in your ears, your heart,
your mind,
and it keeps calling;
every part of your body,
a tense, hot, sizzling touch,
of your skin, yearning,
burning, soft lips leaning so close,
fingers curling, twitching,
sighing, and incessant noise ringing,
screaming, as you gaze into their eyes;
a coarse heat clumping in your throat,
keeping you entranced, captured,
wanting them now; forever.

Why is it that you always look so
colorful?

When you laugh so much
that your face flushes red,
when your pink shirt reflects in your cheeks,
or when you stand in the sun,
bathed by the orange-yellow, white,
light beaming off your brow in specks,
when you surround yourself in leaves
of greens, dark and not,
and when you lean in close
to your computer screen,
and the purple-blues bounce off your nose.