We're passengers of two different ships- going to different places, but everytime we meet on port I just can't help but want to follow you instead.

You're a constellation, a juniper standing tall, the smell of rain, the river flowing, the stars shining and the wind blowing.

She once told me she liked being sad, sad enough to feel helpless, because she wrote her best poems when the sky was gray. She was married to the idea that artists need to suffer to create. And I told her she was stupid. I told her that all that sadness escalated from the point where you feel helpless to the point where you become helpless. I told her that what made a good poet was their emotions, like paint did to a canvas- blues and oranges and greens and reds and all the in-betweens, were what helped crating. I told her that being sad didn't help if you didn't had happiness to contrast it with. I told her that poems about jealousy and anger and sadness were beautiful, but they were even better when they were about love and stars and trees and bees and how the world was captivating in every aspect. I told her that the sun was better that tears and that kissing was better than hating. I told her that the sky was prettier when it was the shade of his eyes and that even though he would never look at me the same way back, they were beautiful- he was beautiful. I told her that even when her family never loved her much, she had made it through so much and that was brave, and bravery is beautiful. I told her that the best way to write quality material was to love life- to accept everything it threw at you with wide open arms and when it hit, you had to be human. You had to feel.

My sins are written on paper, my sadness printed on my bones. I am the storyline of a bad movie and the plot of your favorite book. Intense and saddening, but above all, really messed up. I crave what's too out of my league. You are gold and rubies and good poetry, and my prose lacks your name. I am nothing but a whisper between the trees and you're the meadow under the warmth of the Sun.

You crave human touch, like flowers crave the sun after a long winter, but you won't believe it when they give it you.
You expect everyone else to mean everything they say, just because you do, but God, aren't you stupid? You're single handedly handing tickets to your own doom.
You see him as summer rain, as sweet ginger tea, as fronds on the living room, you see him as home, but you and I know he barely knows who you are.
You're living the masochists ways. You're craving what you can't have. You're loving who won't love you back