That’s the thing about writing.
You think if you can confess your vices poetically enough, they’re not vices at all.

You be the church, I’ll be the steeple.
I’ll shout my love for you to all of the people.
Let it be seen from blocks away.
Let no winding road or large oak hide my exaltation of you.
I can not pack you away with the ***** in the basement.
The hymns must be sung.
Let us rise.

I got angry at you today.
But I don’t think it’s my fault that I want to be exactly where you are all the time.
After all, you made me this way.

On that balcony in Paris -
I wanted to call you with every fiber of me.

Like a life-long smoker trying to not light that cigarette wedged between his fingers.

Shaking.

I was an addict craving my next fix.
The withdrawals of you stung.
My body ached for you.

I knew you were poison.

I didn’t call you that night.
I wasn’t miraculously strong after.

But that was the first night I said no.
And I wasn’t sure if I could.

It was the first time that fresh air was inhaled where I felt in control.

I wanted to so badly. But didn’t.

That wasn’t the end, it took more pain before that happened.

But I am still proud looking back to that balcony.

My mind creates you when you’re not here to hold me.
I dream of you every night.

I am sure of you because I’ve never needed perfect moments with you.
I don’t need to stand underneath a mistletoe or fireworks to kiss you.  
I don’t need a romantic evening to want you.
I don’t need a weekend of activities to enjoy   you.
I don’t need a good joke to laugh at you.
I am sure of you because of the way I feel grocery shopping with you.
I am sure of you because of the way I feel cleaning the house with you.
I am sure of you because of the way I feel disagreeing with you.
I am sure of you because of how much I love the mundane things of life with you.