I wanted him. Every single part of him, I wanted. To run my finger tips through his ever growing, fluffy beard. To stare in to his more  than blue eyes. To peck his lips more than a thousand times through out the day. To feel his massive bear hands wrap around mine like a strong, protective blanket, making me feel like he had me and was never letting go.

I was born with no patience. No amount of waiting as a child gave me any. Telling me "have some patience " didn't teach me an ounce of it. But knowing him, loving him, wanting him.. it taught  me how to have it. How to get use to that burning ache inside my chest, that rose with me first thing in the morning and stood with me throughout my day, before falling in to a dull slumber at night . I learned to live in the day dreams I had about him. I learned about lust, love and patience . The years past and every single emotion I had for this man grew, so deep I felt my body was not made of blood and DNA, but the roots that kept him so firmly grounded in my life .

13 years passed and still my patience grew. For not once had I had the chance to kiss him or touch him. And frustration was born and continued to grow like a child . And my mind began to speak words I never could quite cope with. And my hands bled from holding on to something I never truly wanted to let go of. But he, he never once held on to the hope I had. He let his die in a blazing fight. He washed his scorched hands in my salty tears and he took them steps to freedom, that I feared he would take.

And with that, the hope died. The lust and love remained. The patience felt wasted and abused, victimised and betrayed. Me, I felt an emptiness only the most broken could experience, for I had just wasted my heart on someone who never truly cared.

Loving him feels like being alive again.
Like a flower blooms in spring.
Like a flying butterfly.
Loving him feels like in home.
Warmth and comforting.
Wrapped in a room full of insanity.

Loving him feels like in a room full of art.
Lost in the idea of being loved.
Loving him means understanding.
Find a way to appreciate every little things.
To believe in the power of accepting people's flaws.

Loving him isn't red, neither it's blue.
Loving him is white.
Pure, soft and content.
Loving him is adoring every inch of beautiful things.
And could be a reason to be thankful.

Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind.  The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here.  Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your ******* smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.