I enjoyed our conversation last night, and
it's funny how somebody can come out of nowhere and
make a small difference in your life.
And so, I fell asleep with you by my side,
in a roundabout way.
You came to me in my dreams
like a ghost,
soft,
slow,
almost nonexistent.
I didn't know that it was you, until you spoke
in perfect prose and poetry.
You radiate life.
I'm inspired by your words,
and maybe that's why I thought about you today,
even though I maybe shouldn't.
And with each long drag of my cigarette,
I took in deep breaths of you,
and let you linger in my lungs,
flow through my blood,
and rest gently on my mind.
You're attractive
in a profound away.
I know that maybe I shouldn't say too much,
or really let you know that I'm thinking of you,
but, I'm *****, and there's something about a girl
that writes poetry,
that makes me incredibly weak.

How can somebody be as beautiful as the poems they write?
I have no idea, but **** you do it well.

I'd love to curl up with you tonight.
Feel you next to me.
Learn the pattern of your breaths.
I'd love to cuddle up in a blanket and watch
the sun dip lazily behind the mountains,
the golden rays reflecting your soul,
the breeze playing with your hair.
I want you to tell me the meaning behind each tattoo
and talk late into the night about life's important things.
I want to fall back, and look at the stars,
and as I look over at you, wonder how you're not up there with them.
Fingers interlocked,
souls dancing under receding moonlight.
Your presence, reflecting the world.

So, I just want you to know
that you're actually on my mind a lot lately.
I eagerly await to hear from you,
even when I'm sure I won't.
You really brighten my day
and I love hearing about everything
going on in your life.
You are my favorite thing.
You're the sunset.
You're my morning coffee.
You're my final dreaming thoughts.
You're thin mountain air.
The warmth of Spring.
My favorite poem.
My favorite work of art.
I want to drink you in,
breathe your air,
feel your beauty.
I'd die to trace the outline of your face,
knowing I could never get the lines right.
I am reminded of you every time
I wish it would rain- but it doesn't.
You are lovely.
I just want you to know,
each time I feel a breeze caress my cheek
and swirl around my figure,
I am reminded of your gentleness,
and the way it reflects your
loving nature.
And if you were a song,
I'd dance with you until the early morning,
wishing your melody would never end.
You are the soft warmth of old vinyl-
and there's not a thing on earth
that doesn't reflect your natural way of being.

Aching for a cigarette and meaningful human contact.

Meaningless words
float like stale smoke
in the stagnant atmosphere
of the space between us.

I think about your skin pressed against mine
and how I'm sure it would feel like an ******.
You wreak of *** and
I bet those lips taste of blood.