i don’t think I found myself in the poetry, i think i am finding myself in your arms
under the gentle pressure of your fingertips and the velvet embrace of your words.
they think I found myself in the halls of the airport that it walked alone
but
i think i am finding myself in the kitchen of your flat, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil; in cups of tea nursed at the table and I hope that’s okay.
i sip in the same tentative manner that i reach for your hand in the dark; you may have the effervescent beauty of a tree in the autumn but right now i would like to lace my fingers with yours and be human together. i hope that’s okay.
you are like literature and myth; a deep and sprawling spectrum of contradictions and complexities. i feel like teiresias; blind and trapped within my own self-made cocoon of spiralling thoughts.
eyes closed i reach for your hand.
i almost miss my stop on the last train home spilling out sweet words about your everything.
her hair straight out of bed with soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite; carved from the finest marble i want her to pin me down,
to the bed, to reality-
her lips, to guide me
from her waist and back
to sanity. early in the morning
when she wakes up tangled in sheets
with her eyes peeking up over her phone,
soft smile on her lips.
the world stands still in the soft glow of flickering street lights like visible heartbeats, glowing and not glowing in tandem, and the windows are frosted along the edges; worrying a cracked lip between my front teeth i realise this may be the most I have ever thought about tea.
our fingers
tangle, grasp sheets or cheeks rosy
with first-kiss smiles. eyelids
crinkle.
you are butterflies in my stomach, fear and exhilaration, honesty and hope
you are
listening to the same song on repeat; your laugh is the song stuck in my head, every song i’ve ever loved,
the only song i want to listen to.

I am always outgrowing my shells
The new ones never fit quite right
I just want to feel like I belong here
Like something was made just for me
I am tired of being too much of myself
One day my shell will grow with me
The world will say to me,
"You, Hermit, are just enough,
You, Hermit, have a home here."

You matter,
If not to me,
Then to someone,
And if not to anyone at all,
I hope at least to yourself.
You may not know this,
But you're laugh is like music
And it plays in people's heads
Long after you leave the room.
Your eyes are what inspire love poems,
Poems that don't ever do them justice,
Someone is thinking about those eyes right now.
If your sadness is going unnoticed,
That doesn't make it any less valid,
I hope you find a warm shoulder to cry on soon.
Your pain is not a sign of weakness,
And I'm sorry if you feel ashamed of it,
You are lovable, not "despite of" but "because of"
Your body is beautiful because it is yours,
It is holding you together right now,
It is lovable, you are loving, so love it.
You are as magical as Christmas mornings,
As miraculous as the universe you live in,
As awe-inspiring as sunsets over oceans.
You exist.
And I love that about you.

Something had to fill in....
The void that I have deep within,
So I've replaced the spot you slept in,
With a bottle of ***, Brandy or whiskey,
Because nights are cold and lonely,
And your not here to warm me,
So for now I've replaced the warmth of you,
With golden brown liquor,
1 Pint @ a time,
To mask all that I hide,
This sinking depression eating me inside,
I run on alcohol and chasers,
A substitute for love and a pseudo sense of happiness,
If only for a moment,
I can hold it...
Hold it just a bit longer,
Before my sanity faulters,
Something had to fill in,
The hole that's deep inside,
And maybe I hope in time...
I can pick myself up
ONE MORE TIME.