can you be my
favourite person
and can i be yours?

Happiness can be found not only in the obvious, light flooded areas.
I smile.
A laugh.
A night sky filled with stars.
A kiss, a hug.
Dying of laughter on the floor.
Sitting back on the lake and realizing you have a good moment and asking “what is life but this moment with infinite variation?”

But happiness can also be found in pain. In the dark places that haven’t been lit and where no friend will follow.
You cry on the bathroom floor,
filling the toilet with countless tissues
until you starting risking overflowing if you ever try to flush.
But then next morning you have a song you can sing for years to come;
a poem you will read to your grandchildren and watch the smile spread wide as they think “wow, he was just as young as us once”;
a new, redefined relationship.
All these things are happiness.

we stare at ourselves,
lifelessly staring at our mirrors,
staring at our fears.
our escape are the reflected eyes.
we hide and what seeks us
is not our fears,
but us.

I am not even sad
or trembling
My heart aches
for no one
but me
The loss of myself
in the eyes
I love most
and hate at
the same time:
my own
My heart does not break
or tremble
anymore
I don’t even recall
how it felt
before
I lost
in the eyes
I hate the most
and love at
the same time:
my own
The sea does not rise
nor does it fall
Such intimate human
ideas
to grant to salt water
Once poured
from the eyes
I love most
and hate at
the same time:
my own.
The crest breaks
and trembles
under the damp twilight
Too late for good morning
and too early for goodnight
So I look in the eyes
I hate the most
and love at
the same time:
my own.

His eyes met hers
and then he knew
it was checkmate.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)