Love letters to every person who has ever seen the stars as someone's freckles:

1. You were afraid to love him.  It was okay, he did not know much except for demanding what he wanted despite the word "no".
I want you knowing that you deserve better than half *** apologies and snowstorms for white blood cells.

2. She was your first girlfriend.  Her hair reminded you of your mother's curtains in the living room.  Burgundy.  
She loved you but she had to go, I bet you wish you never hung that rope in your basement.

3.  Everything was set on fire, even your lungs.  You started finding ashes everywhere but in your shoes.  Walk away
before she gives you a new meaning for saying grace.

4.  By now you've had enough of religious boys.  And Oh My God, how your hips felt like heaven.
This is all ******* and he always went to church hungover.

5. This time you've forgotten how to sleep without his breath in your ear.  I think his name was Noah or something like that.
It was ironic how he didn't have two dogs, two cats and oh yes, that's right.  He had two lovers.

6.  You went crazy with him, he was so full of water.  You thought you'd drown when he touched you, and you did.

7.  You were so pale that I thought you were dying.  This is a letter to myself to remind me to never fall in love with a boy who cares
more about putting his cigarettes out in public ashtrays than asking me how I take my coffee.
He was extra surprised to learn that I was vegan and only drank water when we sat in cafes.

You have
inner-city-Chinese-restaurant-koi-pond
eyes; infiltrated pupils
that sit behind and spy on the others sitting around,
all whilst remaining dark: a hallmark I admire.

There's a maternity queen wrapped tight in a dress,
blue and white, who sits at the front and speaks and
you write down what leaks and you make it
stick with a biro you bought with a ******-first
pay check envelope-
ripped open with an eager thumb I'd like to hold
when winter rolls up and in.

Lighthouses look across bigger ponds to warn
of storms that are yet to come.
From afar they see and decide,
weigh up and divide choice into digestible chunks of
we can save them, or if not, we'll guide them whilst they swim:
you make me do this endlessly, almost every day
and this poem is to stop me from thinking
your falsetto hums, that pause in mid air, free, are for me-
you've another bow in brown hair and our corridor conversations
lead nowhere-
I'm gracelessly in love and I just said love and
it's a kind-of cliché, a boring over used word
that we all use when we're excited;
when we run laps around a track that we cannot navigate,
when we're hungover and don't want to work with another desk clerk bore
who sits and talks and works as if an unpaid chore,
but it is true and I wish you'd notice me.

you drape your wrists over my shoulders
and pull me in a little closer,
and now our hips are slightly touching
our silhouettes dancing across the window pane

(our breaths are sharpening
and quickening,
our heartbeats are synchronizing
and stuttering,
our feet are stum-stum-stumbling
as our bodies slowly start to sway)

you whisper “i love you” softly in my ear
and graze your lips across my cheek

(leaving a trail of wildfire
kisses, set torches to skin,
a blinding flash of pearly teeth)

you taste sweet of white zinfadel
and i a hint of cigarette smoke

(i am drunk off of intoxicating love,
as you press your mouth
against my throat)

and i am etching lustful verses
with fingernails and curses
digging words, desperately,
down the length of your back
and we are slipping into love
as though that’s all there ever was

(and we are lost,
and we are found,
and we are lost,
and we are found)

and i am getting lost
in the heart of your forest eyes
and i am, i am, i am screaming:
"this, this, this is heaven!
and i am never—and i mean—never— coming back!”