Between the icy roads January brings and
how cold I am in this lonely bed,
I worry that if you crash the car,
I won't be able to tell whether it's
missing you that numbs me
or the breeze I feel when
I find myself standing over your grave.
Love comes in different ways to everyone.
Your presence warms my heart more than
anything ever has before,
and I fear that once you disappear,
so will the warmth that keeps me from freezing.
The chills I get when your fingers graze my back
are not shivers from the cold.
They're simply bliss
enveloping me in the moment
where I am certain I am only yours,
and nothing else matters.
Not the ice.
Not the snow.
Not the clouds overhead.
You're summer in my endless winter,
Eyes as green as pines,
Hair kissed by the sun,
Freckles dotting your face like bees to roses,
You're as warm as the breeze.
The ice is melting.
The snow has turned to a late spring drizzle
as a form of proof that you are not going to dissipate
or follow the weather patterns that have existed so long
here in the terrain that is my mind.
Instead, you lit a match.
The fire grew, warming the lands,
bringing life to the world I never thought I'd see again-
happiness.
You made me fall.
I am not breaking ice
and I am not succumbing to the cold,
Because you are easing me into the sea
And helping me swim.

For once,
I would not mind if the water swallowed me.
The ocean's warmer than I ever imagined,
And I wouldn't mind drowning in you.

I've heard people say, "You know you're in love when all the songs make sense."
Well after loving you I know that to be untrue.

I've been with many people and I understood what the songs were saying.

I knew I was in love when none of the songs could encapsulate the way I felt. I had to write my own songs. There was no combination of notes or words already in the universe that explained what I knew to be true.

Thank you for teaching me that when you're in love; the songs don't just make sense.

You feel so much when you’re in love, you have to write your own songs.

There is no end, only continual progress.
To push us forward with the current.
To lose us in the stream.
The flow will envelope you, it will drown you in its ups and downs.
You will feel your lungs fill until you cannot breathe.
This is not achieving, this is not winning.
This is progressing, this is surviving.
You are gasping for the air that is escaping your lungs,
it looks for security, for safety,
because it knows you are not.

i got high and masturbated until my hands were sore
a midnight breeze wafting through my room, the smell
of incense awash
i thought of you, of course i did, your fingertips
resting gently on my shoulders
kissing my cheek over and over as i turned to an ocean --
it was something in your eyes,
the way i could stare into the pupils until
i thought i could see through to the bits of you
behind your skull; i floated
inward, tugged and pulled, back to the place i was born,
to the place inside my conscience where
everything i've ever known resides.

there is a place called violet beginnings
beneath the shoulders blades
i breathed upon -- weavings of honey, lavender,
and soil -- gripping my expectations of life like reins;
watery half globes form from my thought of absence
and the feeling of my legs sprinting
through dandelion sweeps
and wind caresses. there is a way
to abandon these memories, to strip yourself
of any lost feeling, a coined exchange
for the desire to find something easier to stomach.
there is a way to render yourself motionless; i
am looking for the ignition.