I've written too many poems for too many people. something about you, I know, is different. even the image of your cold eyes skipping across the words I'm creating is nothing short of a miracle. the thought of your distant mind holding a blurred depiction of me seems impossible. you deserve more than a poem- more than standing up on some balcony thinking, just for a second, you loved some girl you never met. and maybe you loved her because you saw the best of her. but, she loved you because she saw some of the worst in you. and you made her see it in herself.

how can I miss someone I've never met? someday, you'll just become another insect weaving along the streets. a heavy look, yet somehow empty, stained on your face. it will age even further than your mind already has. it will flash on TV screens and billboards who advertise a man they think they can define. just know, I'll refuse to say your name- and I'll still miss you.

this is not a poem. it's not a sonnet, nor a song, nor a love note. this is something to remember on the subway. something to hold on to when the sting of fluorescent lights loses its luster, and the smell of the city is deemed no longer potent. it's easy for me to believe in a years time, I will still be the face you never laid eyes on and the body you never touched. it's harder for me to percieve this as truth.

wherever it is that you go, I know it will be with confidence. I don't have to worry about your success or stability. I will worry I have been forgotten, just as swiftly as the thoughts I've told you when you're the only one keeping me up deep into the pit of night. you teach me more than I have ever learned in a textbook; sometimes, even more than I have learned as I walk amongst the pests inside this anthill. I cant make you feel: I can't make you miss me and I can't make you love me; I don't want you to. I can't make you touch me, and you shouldn't. I can't make you accept the warm embrace I'd willingly give you, hell, I can't even make you give me the chance to try.

I can't make you do anything, but wherever you go, whatever you do, I will always think highly of you. I'm sure you'll live wearing gold along your knuckles thats worth more than my life, and chatting with strangers I can only read about in novels. maybe someday, you'll reach back and taste just a hint of nostalgia from some scrap of me that flickers in your mind. maybe someday, you'll long for endless nights of voiceless conversation. and maybe, someday, you'll miss me too.

I used to write about smoking cigarettes
and stealing bottles from shopping centers-
about love that never deserved to exist,
and people who would now not recognize
the shape of my own being.

it's conflicting to constantly know
who you are today cannot compare to tomorrow;
and the thoughts that cause feelings of brilliance
are only echoes of past stupidity.

I'm supposed to hate myself for what I've done.

My bones should snap under the weight
of my own guilt, but there is none.

Perhaps I am incapable of feeling sorry,
even for myself, since no one else ever did.

Maybe I can't control my own demons,
because I never kept them in chains,
and it's only a matter of time
before karma catches me.

You will never understand what it took
to love You again,
and I will never comprehend why
It all left it in the first place.

We hold a thousand memories,
but the hundred I have molded on my own
burn and singe-
the sounds of your unanswered calls-
over and over-
releasing myself from a speeding car window,
losing myself in the bed that was never mine.

What would you say
if you could see the looks
on all of their faces?
Contorted and blurry by my own incoherence
and their inability to understand:
"Who are you, now?"

But I know myself.
I know I hold the anger of my father,
"You're pathetic" and "burning bridges"-
The loveless love of my mother.
The ability to disconnect from my own mind,
that has hindered me useless for so long...

You don't know me, and if you did,
these petal like lips would lay untouched, You
wouldn't believe in love
that the truth that created
the depiction of me,
would **** you.

And so I sit in silence.

Do not trust boys
who kiss you in your drive way.
If they can't make it to the front door
there must be something wrong.

I have had many first kisses in my driveway
and every boy that has given me one
has turned out sour.
Do not trust boys who kiss you in your drive way.

If they are too lazy to walk the extra ten feet to your front door
then they are most likely too lazy to walk
the extra mile in a relationship.
Effort is key my friend.

I cannot bare to stand in my driveway.
Memories come flooding in
from this boy and that.
Do not trust boys that kiss you in your driveway.
Trust me on that.

this is you
and this is me
and this is us

this is the late night phone calls
about futures we are too sure of
the midnight drives
across miles we aren't scared enough of

the butterfly kisses
the chubby cheek kisses
the french kisses
on your bed

this is every night
I've called you crying
because my sister is too sick
to function normally

this is every day
you've called me fuming
because your dad makes you madder than you've been in months

this is you
this is me
this is us

this is the feeling I get in my gut
when you tell me you love me
this is the calm that takes over me
when your lips are pressed to mine

this is the tears that well in your eyes
when you look at me for too long
this is the quickness of your pulse
when my hands are in your hair

this is the closeness I feel to you
and you to me
the understanding we share
the laughs
the tears
the beauty
the bad

you, me, us, we
we are not our distance
we are not the miles between us
we are not the doubt
the fear
the complications

we are friendship
we are love
we are us

this is you
this is me
and this is us

"I love you, a lot. Don't break my heart, please. It ***** when people do that to you. I did it to someone else to be with you so please don't do it to me because that'd ****, a lot, because I love you."