if a butterfly can cause a hurricane, it explains you.

explains the effortless way you threw my life around our heads and hearts and heels in your careless breeze

explains the gentle flutter of your eye lashes when you wake me

explains the butterflies in my stomach every second with you and the butterflies in my mind when I think of you

explains the disaster left after you complexly simple love

You stitched me together with needle and thread,
holding and mending the holes in my head.
You washed away bad thoughts with kisses and soap,
and filled my heart with true love and hope.
You repainted and mended and made me brand new,
made me forget about life before you.
You stayed for a while to keep an eye out,
until your mind became clouded with doubt.
You couldn't handle the way I pulled you,
The ways I needed and wanted and loved you.
Your Love became lies and kisses became itches,
All of your promises just ornamental stitches.

when I search for my art I look into you - into the electrical blue sparks in your eyes that fuel my love and ignite a burn in my mind and lungs and crackles onto paper.

when you look for your art you pick up your guitar, and pluck at it like you do at my heart strings, the ringing of the notes in my ears burning blissfully to your tune.

I long for you to one day look at me and for my paint to swirl on a canvas in front of you, merging into beauty so I can one day be enough for you.

i'm in love every inch of you,

the stretches of pale skin along your arms that are severed with cuts and scars,
the white canvas of your back speckled with flickers of freckles,
silk-like skin of your fingers sliding across my own.

brown curls licking my fingers and face as you hold me and stubble tickling the secret corners of my neck,
every tiny fleck of grey splattered in the magnetic blue of your eyes that reflect into mine.

every gentle touch of you on my own skin,  
every inch your eyes don't see and the inches you cannot feel beneath your fingertips.
every length of whisper slipping in my ear
and soft lips kissing my own hurt.

Skinny is a feeling.
The feeling of a necklace scrapping protruding collarbones,
The feeling of rings slipping off thinning fingers,
The feeling of sharp cheekbones slicing into skin,
The feeling of hunger scratching stomachs,
The feeling of jeans becoming baggy around pencil legs,
The feeling of bald patches covered with wooly hats in summer,
The feeling of sharp ankles balancing on scales,
The feeling of needles in arms,
The feeling of hospital blankets,
The feeling of cold.

But there’s no feeling in death.

I never cared for blue eyes.
a simple, dull tone of boring pens  
and pale skys and puddles.                    
a common colour among a million eyes.

until yours.       
then pools of shining ink spreading across plain pages,
filling chapters of my life.
a bright summer horizon expanding before me,
everywhere eyes can see.            
an huge, infinite ocean of sparkling blue,                      
blue thats fills my eyes and mind and lungs,              
voluntarily drowning in your colour.