The stretch marks that you left on your mothers thighs
will hurt her far less than the lines you will leave
on your suicide note.
Stop and think for a second.

the way your arm would wrap around me
like a snake with a mouse.
I was never really certain if you were going to
embrace me
or
crush me to an oblivion.

that honesty was the best kind of poetry.
So here it is. My kind of poetry
but your kind of honesty.
I am so
infinitely,
undeniably,
irresponsibly,
head of heels in love with you.

He looked at me with eyes
that stabbed my chest.
                                                       "Sometimes it's not the guns,
                                                           ­                                                that **** you."
He said,
and then those eyes,
the ones that stabbed my chest,
filled with tears
                                                           ­     "Sometimes it's the goodbyes."

Why is it you love someone when they're gone?
Why do we keep repeating them in our heads, like a song?
Why are we always so late to realize?
Why are they the only dream we dream every night?
Why does it hurt when we've not been hit?
Why are we ill but still not sick?
Why do our hearts still race at their imaginary sounds?
Why do we keep going in circles, like on a merry-go-round?
And why do we still care when they cry?
Why are we still with them every time?
Why do we still keep falling?
Or why pretend they're still calling?
Why does it always rain on the sunniest day?
Why is it that not holding someone at our worst, makes us afraid?
Why do mornings feel the same as night?
Why do we forget such a thing called time?
Why does every little thing, reminds us of them?
Why do we shed fawning tears and sink into our beds?
Why do our breaths slow down and we feel like dying?
Why do we end up silent after the endless crying?
Yet why do we think of them and immediately smile?
Why do they still make us happy at desperate times?
Why do we still feel closer when they're far away?
Why do we still keep hoping, they'll come back one day?

Loving you was like jumping off the stool to hang yourself, just to find that once both feet are in the air, the rope has disappeared.

Yours was only a hand, delicate and gentle.
Mine was only a waist, never pampered by touch or love.
It was but a silly heart, pounding against my chest.
It was only a kiss, under the stars, in the pouring moonlight.