“I’m here”
I take off my shoes and look up
He lies across my sheets
His eyes staring eager like a little boy
I smile hoping he’s questioning my day
He doesn’t ask anything about it

“I wrote a new song”, he says
“Should I play it?”
I nod, as he moves quickly across the room
When he reaches back with his guitar
He looks at me so concentrated
Without delay he begins to play

He stares into me, and past me
Focused on the music he sees
Because he’s never even read music before
He’s been too busy trying to read me
It doesn’t take me long to realize
That he didn’t come to me for lyrics this time
That this song doesn’t need any

After he’s finished playing, he packs up his guitar
And glides on his favourite jean jacket,
Covered in buttons from all the concerts we’ve seen
He looks at the ground and bends down,
He puts on his shoes and looks up
“I’m leaving”

it's 2:34am
and all I can think about is the way you said to me:
"if anyone's going to leave, it's you"
because it burns in my mind when I write it on blank paper
and then i get mad
the paper looks so empty
why is it so messy
where did i write these words?
i find myself writing your words unacknowledged
just in the centre of a white page
and the white is only matter
it gets swallowed by gravity
the words a black hole with it's own gravitational pull
any matter, anything that ever mattered
you
it will find a way to pull it in
**** it dry
unless it's dust, almost nothing
not complete nothing
but something of something
that's when it stays
like feelings
lingering on as long as they can take
not even to consume them fully
but almost, never quite
exactly
if you look closer at the stars
you can see faces and the more sips i take from this bottle
they remind me of your dark eyes
and not in some increasingly overly done romanticized fashion
but more so in a
'you spark interest in me'
and
it hurts to be inspired by anything else these days
other than
you
i guess
more so the hope of you
which is, by the way, just as lively
as the idea of mythical creatures
the most anticipating satisfaction to admiration is the thirst for something unrealistic
you to be real one day
i would drink you to the last drop
and i'd still be thirsty
but i would never want to consume you
i would never want to run you dry
even in the end
there's dust left

here i sit, bottle in hand, on an adventure with no end
the search for you in late night alleys,
at the bottom of bottles, ash trays.
I think I start to see you in burning embers, striving for life at the edge of my dying cigarette.

I ache in the absence of your arms, ones caught up in other strangers
women with different proportions,
smaller voices, and softer cheeks.

despite it's appeal, I will continue to search, in all places known, places
you swore you’d never be.

just like you swore you’d never leave.
But all I can imagine is pale lifeless hands caressing your sweet dark skin,

pale hands that could never be mine
and it burns in my mind like a nintendo64 on pause.
it can last for days and weeks.

I wonder how I’ll ever find you in the places
you swore you’d never be
just like you lost me,
when you swore you’d never leave.

i don't know you yet
no
but i plan on it
you
an analytical puzzle
to solve, to create
another question left unanswered
or simply unchanged
something about you
so gentle
so sweet
into late night conversations
where my words get held back
cause i'd like to think
they taste better in person
things taste better when shared
but i see it
i see that i have to just live
live without thought
that i have to just do me
but who says i can't still do me
with the help of someone else
there is 4 letters in your name
but i have an infinite more
to share with you
so tell me if you'll wait
wait for the other 22 letters
because i'd say the alphabet
backwards
and forwards
just to see where it leads us

Here
Is where I'm safe,
Writing
always safer,
Somehow my pen can’t,
stutter as my lips do,
Words get stuck in throats,
But never fingertips

Curses
instead of cursive,
We won’t stumble
across paper,
We save that for our
Unfolded rugs,
Here we won’t
fall off the edges,
Because even if we do
It has elegance,
Balance idly follows poise

That’s why we have
our guides,
Solid trails of blue lines
Form our foundation,
Making definite and clear,
our ideas, thoughts,
         selves

Reading this, you can't tell I’m crying,
   am i?
Reading this you can't tell me I’m wrong,
          how can words be wrong?


Thoughts can
we catch them,
Like thieves in the night
Slipping
In between the cracks,
green eyed warriors with broken smiles,
            broken promises

Thoughts becoming our subconscious bombs
underground, unheard,
We walk into no man’s land
without a cover,
stepping,
          testing our grounds,
       waiting for the blasts

So we write about our past,
romanticized
Our future,
anticipated


We write ourselves a map
because this time we’ll figure it out,
this time,
the words will make sense
One day

Words will whisper,
tell us what we might not know,
            what we might not understand
Tell us our present
Can it be returned?

Writing makes things clear
our own words cannot hide the truth

Writing is real, raw, ridged
forever undisguised,

It can be whatever it wants
whatever we might need it to be,
Either a "yours truly",
       or a "yours sincerely"
or maybe it was never really ours
Maybe it ends in
               "best regards…"

Through written words alone
we can understand ourselves,
Open up closed doors,
heal the cracks left behind,
By our green eyed monsters
that we never seem to find

Emoting becomes a cure all,
        end all,
        of time,
        of silent sufferings

We’re all born blind
we don’t see what we don’t understand,
what we never want to have to understand
Until we write it down
unhinge

We stare into broken mirrors
the reflection of our ideas, opinions,
Unable to detect the fractions of light
or the scars we like to keep covered

Words,
an honest to god friend
Guiding,
through those blue lines
the hidden crooked valleys
magnified by our storms
our moments

All the in-between white spaces
missing pieces
we look to fill with black,
Making us finally learn to analyze
to ask ourselves
About those white li(n)es

Opening ourselves,
Trusting our words,

to the unknown

I’m a different woman
I pride myself on it
Sometimes masking
Insecurity
I tend to take things
Seriously
Literally
I use that word
Extensively
I try to see others
Moralities
Yet talk on top of peoples
Words
The things I jumble in real life
But on paper
They come to life
My mother has too kind a heart
My fathers pride a work of art
I am both of them
And none of them
Neither my brothers alike
Both two tend to fight
I take flight
I travel in converse
Unlike my family
Grounded by roots
By People
I am grounded by nothing
I am a bird
Sometimes I will fall
But I will always
Be there to catch myself