1267

I saw that the Flake was on it
But plotted with Time to dispute—
“Unchanged” I urged with a candor
That cost me my honest Heart—

But “you”—she returned with valor
Sagacious of my mistake
“Have altered—Accept the pillage
For the progress’ sake”—

So, I just want you to know
that you're actually on my mind a lot lately.
I eagerly await to hear from you,
even when I'm sure I won't.
You really brighten my day
and I love hearing about everything
going on in your life.
You are my favorite thing.
You're the sunset.
You're my morning coffee.
You're my final dreaming thoughts.
You're thin mountain air.
The warmth of Spring.
My favorite poem.
My favorite work of art.
I want to drink you in,
breathe your air,
feel your beauty.
I'd die to trace the outline of your face,
knowing I could never get the lines right.
I am reminded of you every time
I wish it would rain- but it doesn't.
You are lovely.
I just want you to know,
each time I feel a breeze caress my cheek
and swirl around my figure,
I am reminded of your gentleness,
and the way it reflects your
loving nature.
And if you were a song,
I'd dance with you until the early morning,
wishing your melody would never end.
You are the soft warmth of old vinyl-
and there's not a thing on earth
that doesn't reflect your natural way of being.

“His voice became taut as he ran his hand down his jawline and back to the mug in front of him. It was empty, but he held onto it like the warmth from the black coffee hadn’t left it and stared into the bottom as if looking for a world beyond where he was. 

'Tell me,' he breathed, 'was it your mother or your ex-lover who first taught you that you ought to be afraid of heights?
Who told you that the fall would be so bad?
Do you ever think it’s unfair to let others around you jump when you can’t even work up the courage to climb down the ladder to catch them at the bottom? Forget falling as fast as I did, but did you even look over the edge?'
Her breath caught in her throat as she fought tears and opened her mouth to explain as he cut her off,

'Who taught you that you should fear the places you try to forget instead of making peace with them?
Why won’t you tell me about your grandmother’s house or where you spent eighth grade?
Why do you feel like you can’t heal or forget or at least be comfortable with the reality that you never want to go back?
Why do you feel more at home in a city full of strangers than in a room with people you’ve grown up with and how come you won’t let me be your comfort?
Is it really so bad that you’d rather spend a night in a city that never sleeps instead of a night in with me?
How did it get to this point of uncertainty?
How did I not see this coming?'
He cleared his throat as he tapped his fingers against his mug, placing each finger against the ceramic as though it were the neck of a guitar. When he spoke again it was thin,

'Where did you learn to have a high-speed come apart every time things are looking up?'
His chin lowered but his eyes stayed on her face, pleading for so much as a change in her expression but she remained silent, the lump in her throat threatening tears at any second. 
Finally he croaked,
'I just wish to be the place your heart finds solace, I just want to give your soul a rest. I know it’s cliché but I just want to be your favorite.'"

I enjoyed our conversation last night, and
it's funny how somebody can come out of nowhere and
make a small difference in your life.
And so, I fell asleep with you by my side,
in a roundabout way.
You came to me in my dreams
like a ghost,
soft,
slow,
almost nonexistent.
I didn't know that it was you, until you spoke
in perfect prose and poetry.
You radiate life.
I'm inspired by your words,
and maybe that's why I thought about you today,
even though I maybe shouldn't.
And with each long drag of my cigarette,
I took in deep breaths of you,
and let you linger in my lungs,
flow through my blood,
and rest gently on my mind.
You're attractive
in a profound away.
I know that maybe I shouldn't say too much,
or really let you know that I'm thinking of you,
but, I'm *****, and there's something about a girl
that writes poetry,
that makes me incredibly weak.

How can somebody be as beautiful as the poems they write?
I have no idea, but **** you do it well.