What is there to voice out?
My passion isn't familiarity,
it's a sign of vulnerability.
It reminds me of
heightened tragedies,
And my pensive dilemma.

Parallel lines are definite.
Close; yet endlessly apart.
Tell me, was it a summer's dream
or autumn's death?

The dead victorian era
of fallen kingdoms
and ghostly ruins,
maybe I lost it there,
along with the
glory of falling in love.

You are in every poem.
My words are turning
into proses of guilt.
What should have been
left buried, or
in a bottomless ocean,
has now risen and
is ready  for chaos.

My gaze falls on you,
and everything around me
starts to slowly fade away.
For that moment, nothing
except you seems significant
and all I want is,
to tell you I feel about you,
My fierce feelings;
the familiarity of a home.

But I am not acquainted
with the idea of a home,
and that's the tragedy
of finding it
inside a person,
You cannot perpetually stay.

This is to the boy I write about,
his sharp features and
crippling inconsistency,
the way his name rolls off my tongue
like he’s home and heartache,
crafted into one.

This is to the boy I write about,
He is faintly poetic, and
Unlike what I write, he is raw.
He’s the face of everything
I have yearned for,
he is the face of everything I’ve lost.

This is to the boy I write about,
Whose touch is like fire
and words are vanilla.
Whose honey eyes pierce
into mine too fast, and
make me crash too hard.

This is to the boy I write about,
Whom I borrowed
some pieces of history with
and left the memories on replay,
whom I fell in love with,
forgetting he didn’t know
what love is.

This is to the boy I write about,
Are we playing, honey?
Is any of it real?
When; Where does it end?
And who do we become when it does?

This is to the boy I write about,
A warning, a sign;
Do not fall for me.
I am chaos for your heart,
And we’ll destroy each other
in the heavenly way possible.
And we will understand
When we fall apart,
Why storms are named after people.