this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).

you will not win.

- m.f.

she splatters verse
like paint into her poetry
and i am hypnotized by
the ebb and flow of
her imagination
swinging in and out
of rhyme or reason
each line a brush
stroke of her mind

and i swear that she is
built entirely of words
stretched across
her bones, her skin
an ink stained canvas
and that if i listen close
i can even hear
as they slowly spill out
with each sigh and
each exhale, bound together
as a completed document
and i watch in awe as they
dance behind her in
the cool night air and
follow her back home

and i am slowly learning
the vocabulary of her body
of the hidden stories
delicately tucked
like random notes
between her
flesh and bones
and i am slowly learning
that her heart is
an ancient epitaph
that holds more value
than even she could know
and once i heard
the lilt of her laughter
nothing else ever mattered
and i knew that between
her creased pages lies her soul

and that, that is the only
place i have ever wanted to go

what are you doing to me?
these marble figures
crashing at my feet
like chips of flint
begging to catch
fire, to catch a
breath of air
but my god,
my lungs
heaving,
I ask
you

what are you doing to me?
permeating stone and
teaching me what it
is to bend, when I
once stood my
ground and
said, you
cannot
move
me

and what are you doing to me?
your feet are padding around
in the dark tunnels of my
temporal lobe, hanging
lanterns where lights
went out in storms
of crazed chaos,
and don’t you
know that I
am often
a ghost,
( don’t
you? )

what are you doing to me?
I feel the sun’s light as
it shines into my rib
cage, and I find I
am drunk from
this warmth,
and I ask,

what are you
doing to
me?