I want you to,
I want you to,
care,
fully,
read,
understand,
and love,
things like,
my favorite books.

Like
what you read between the lines…
the feelings that seem to emerge from reading a combination of words,
are about something bigger than you, and I.
Its just,
I want myself to desperately stop,
the constant feeling of not being able to breathe and
writing,
It seems like an endless trap filled with blinking cursors and an empty pages
about
sweet nothings, and memories that
you,
that you…made sure stayed between us like unspoken promises.

Its complicated
I want you
I want you
to feel
to love
those things that made
me like
the flaws and imperfections…
I
I understand the feeling of drowning now,
I desperately do,
because now you know what its like to really know,
love
people like you…
you.

Its complicated.
I want you to
I want you to
Want me.
Know what it feels to not be able to breathe.

(WARNING FETUS POEM, UNDER CONSTRUCTION, 1ST UNREVISED DRAFT DONT JUDGE)
My pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you
it might feel used
as if I only pick it up to write words like
tragedy
cry
leave
goodbye.

I don't know what words I'd use now to describe you now
I remember how you once apologized
that words were the only thing you had
the only thing we have to share
and what I should have but didn't say was
I think that words
and the brush of a pen
are one of the most beautiful things to exist
apart from our story.

I think
"You're my silver lining."
is a close combination of words
I'd use
because I know you
like the back of my hand
and the roadmap that will lead us
thousands of miles apart
towards similar goals
and identical places.

You and I
"We."
exist only in midpoint
and in white and blue
sometimes green and white
if there is really bad signal.

We know of our friend's stories
but not their laughs
or their voices.
We only know each others.

Friend,
I love you.
No,
not in love with you.

But I'd be lying if I said
what we share
is only a silly connection
and I guess I"ll end this poem now
because my pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you.

Dear summer boy,

I hate the idea of you.
I hate how you walk four steps ahead
your shoulders proud, walking around, eyes looking
at all the possibilities the world, this park, and this town has to offer.
I hate the skip to your walk
the pearly whites that show when you smile.
I write this in purple ink in my notebook because
blue ink is to remember,
and black ink is to make you official
as if I were printing you on a page if my life were a book
and we as permanent as ink.
You are not permanent.
I am not permanent,
The number four and the word “stupid” i see branded
in my reflection will go away.
Boy, I am not in love with you.
I will not remember the feel of you holding my hand in a years time.
Still, I will not settle.

I will not settle for a pat in the back
a sorry excuse of a goodbye,
words given to me on a piece of paper
that like myself, has rough and broken edges
and a signature like you— that is illegible.
I want my words from me to you, back
so I can eventually give them to someone who
does not see me as an addition to a list or a number on a scale.
I want looks exchanged across a room and
tears spilled on my cheeks as we kissed returned
because boy, I hate how charming you are.
I hate your stupid dance moves
and the black and white shirt that hung in your dorm.
The way you looked at me from underneath sunglasses,
cute grins reserved only for me (so I thought at the time),
the memory of the night when land rolled by us
and rain poured on my face, that was resting on your shoulder
as the wind whispered “this could be forever”
I hate the softness of your lips and most importantly boy,
I hate how you walk four steps ahead
your shoulders proud
walking around, eyes looking at
all the possibilities the world has to offer.
After all, I was walking four feet behind and I could see your back whilst looking at what the opportunities that this park, town, and world had.
That I did not see an option because
you were a possibility.
A possibility I never was for you.
Because you were four steps ahead
and I was not in sight.
Dear summer boy,
I was so in love with the idea of you.