i want to tell the whole world i love you,
that i don’t deserve to, but im so, so willing to try
i want to tell it you make me want to be better, that i didn’t know love made you feel that way, i want to tell the world every little thing it’s heard before about love, every little thing i’ve heard before about love that i’ve never once said for myself.
get me in line for the people turned poets wanting to have just a minute to speak with the world about the newfound, age old love they found in their chest. let it be on a mountain top, in the depths of the rainforest, invite the world to my living room for tea. i want to spend hours telling the world i loved her first. i want to smile over small, heart shaped cookies telling the story of my first love. i want the world to notice in between every word i speak is a love filled sigh. i don’t deserve to love her like this. i don’t deserve her at all.

but i don't want to be one of those people who say "i don't watch tv" when people ask, so i just use my knowledge from all the late nights we spent rambling about your favorite tv show and say yours. and when they say they liked a certain part, or that it was a great show, i say, "yeah. it was."

silence reaches down from the farthest corners of space
claims my inner voices' be still and listen'
and I find myself listening for days unable to speak a word
and into the void of silence I touch the stars.

i thought i was okay but everything came rushing back, million year old lava shooting up and seeing the same sky after so long underground

love is like a flower.
it wilts and fades and dies, but
(and hear me out here
ive been writing so much about death, but this poem's positive i promise)
i hope you preserve my love.
i hope that even when the leaves start to fall off i am a fond memory.
i hope that you press my love into the books you read and keep my love underneath all of the heavy times.
i hope that the kisses i leave on your lips will blossom through your smile, that the way i held your hand will inspire you to help others. i hope that the way i looked at you made you realize just what i was looking at -- and that i inspire you to grow into what i saw.

i keep seeing a ghost in the corner of my eye.
it sits on a box just outside my door, looking vacantly, vaguely in my direction. it's hard for me not to glance back.
it's sitting on a box of old clothes.
i cleaned my closet this morning, as well as my desk and floor.
but while i threw out the dust and old tissues, the clothes remain, in the box, outside my door, being used as a chair for the ghost. it's still there.
i just reread and edited all that i've written so far. still there.
it doesn't knock, or pace, or threaten, or cage. it just stares. and yet its gaze feels like it is doing all of the things i mentioned, and a little more.
why are all my poems about death? perhaps all these ghosts that pass by my house beg me to tell their story. perhaps i am an ouija board, with a laptop. perhaps i'm a dream-catcher, looking for some place to write down all these nightmares i catch. perhaps i'm just dumb and spiritual. ghost's still sitting on that box of old clothes. it's glanced away.