I hate that you did what you did.
I miss you so much.

You are everything I haven't written poetry about yet.

I'll never know what it's like to dance with you. I'll never know what it feels like to hold your hand on a Sunday morning.

Cuando te bese, fui completamente tuya. Pero tu nunca fuiste mio, y nunca seras para mi. Y ahora que pasan los dias que se convierten en meses, que se convierten en años, hay tanto que decir y no lo dire. Que el silencio hable por mi.

Perhaps you and I are an eclipse
and our life spans are the time before and after it. As to make sure it only happens once.

And we will glance at one another for a long moment before our fingertips slip through the space between our hands like desert sand.

One last time I will tell you how the stars were always just the light in your eyes, shining through the cracks in my bedroom ceiling and I was merely the darkness inside the room.

If I could stand on my tippy-toes, the way you like it, I would lasso planet HAT-P-7b and place it in your chest between those stars that made you.

But you will vanish from my sight and take my universe with you. And I, spacebound, will travel another 7 years into the next lifetime to find your arms around me in the morning.

Even if our next eclipse lasts only 7 minutes and 31 seconds.

I wonder if the flowers can sense how sad I am? I prefer they didn't know. I hadn't realized how common your name is until I heard it called twice today. I was caught off guard and both times stung my heart. He was a little boy, with a head full of brown hair similar to yours. I wondered if he'll go on to taint women's hearts when he's older as you have. I hoped a small prayer he won't. That he'll be better, that there will be a lightness to his name that brings comfort to the heart of the woman who loves him.

I have to start seeing myself without you