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10:03 P.M.
Notification: You have one unread message:
from Andrea

"i love you ♥"

10:03 P.M.
...
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i.


there are days
when my stars
align just for me.


my inner cosmos
telling me to write
about the pain.


my inner cosmos
telling me to expand
the universe within.


ii.


there are days
when my stars
collapse.


i am made of pure
darkness.


i am made of pure
anxiety—


terrified of not seeing
the sun again.


iii.


there are days
when my stars
rise—


like the infinite suns
that they are.


illuminating my being.

In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is
you.

I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your
moves.

I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.

I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.

And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.

Maybe,
I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and

I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.

Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.

I want to study you,  
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.

a different sort of nerves
run up and down my spine
this is new, this is taking
breath and spitting out
a lie, chewing on the
tacky bits of life yet
still forgetting you
will die;
because death falls
through the walls
and takes us even
if we cry,
if we lie;
death is deaf to
tacky pleas and
pulls our breath out of
the lungs
beneath our spines.

this december there won’t be much
airwaves and frequencies
at most i’m afraid
but i won’t mind
this december i might not even exist
but i’ll be there either way
oh i think this december
i’ll let the chill
follow me home
so that come january
i’ll already be cold enough to
let you go
when you leave.

When you took me to the sea
I melted into you, like wax
All the waves dried up
And the mountains started moving

I think you thought you were
Some type of God
And I think I thought the same
Because even when the seasons changed
You never went away
At least not inside of my heart,
Which is where they tell you God stays

I prayed to whatever I was worshipping
That you’d live in me
Just one more day
Because letting you make a home
In every tiny corner
Felt better than saying
I needed you to go

A story is written
into the sheets of the trembling bed

until the sunlight drips off of us
and we go restlessly

off into the haze of midnight
unaware of the drum of thunder

and of the rain
singing its chorus overhead.