Everywhere I imagine myself going-
The vacations I have yet to plan.
Cities I have not yet seen.
I imagine waking up there with you.

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.