Don't fall in love with a writer.
She can make you realize
how bare and naked your soul is,
stripped into words,
inked on pages,
read by everyone,
but only appreciated by a few.

Don't fall in love with a writer.
You'll see how she holds hurricane
and tranquility
in the same pair of eyes,
but never learned
to find beauty within herself.

Don't fall in love with a writer.
She can make you realize
how calm chaos can be.
You will see how
she has constellations
streaming down her mind
and somehow, she has created
a space for you among those
cosmic clusters,
being a part of the galaxy
she held within her.

Don't fall in love with a writer.
Because even after
everything is over,
once things did not work out
between the two of you,
she'll still write about you
and your legacy will always
live through words and pages.

and the scariest thing about having
all these late night thoughts
is the possibility of them all being true.

I'm drifting
through my dreams,
occasionally colliding
with a hint of certainty.
I'm higher than I seem,
fighting the concept
of reality as a means.
I'm lost in the sky.
I can't remember why,
but life is just easier
when I get a little high.

the world is a judge,
and I am the accused.
no trials were held.
but the verdict was guilty.

She lends her pen,
to thoughts of him,
that flow from it,
in her solitary.

For she is his poet,
And he is her poetry.*

-Lang Leav

Not once did I say I love you.
Not to them.
Not to you.
Not to myself.

But if it wasn’t love,
How can these feelings linger for so long?
Is it the fact that you were never mine?
Well, not mine in the normal sense.

You were my best friend.

Sometimes,
I think my letter is what made you leave,
But that can’t be true.
You left long before I even wrote the letter.

There were letters before that.
I wrote them late at night
When I couldn’t get you out of my head.
Those letters never met paper.
They all sit on my computer
And in my heart.

The letters that begged you to stay.
I wrote that you should go,
But you would know to stay.

The letters that told you I was lost.
I wrote that I was fine without you,
But you would know I am crumbling.

Maybe it’s because you know me so well.
You know me better than I know myself.

Maybe it’s because not only do you know me,
But I know you
Better than you would ever admit.

Is that why you cut me off?
You don’t want me to know you anymore,
Or do you not want to know me?
Or, maybe,
You already know how much you hurt me,
Without me ever saying a word.

I don’t want to believe it was love,
So I’m never going to say I loved you.
Not to them.
Not to you.
Never to myself.