she stings,
like a burn against my skin.
she aches,
like a throbbing in my lungs.
she pulsates,
like my fractured heart.
she bleeds;
she is the shortness of my breath.
she hurts.

this isn't want,
this is need.
this isn't love,
this is greed.

i gave you all of me
only to receive a fraction in return

i wish i told her
how much i loved her poetry;
her poetry was music to my ears
and calligraphy to my eyes,
no matter how messy her handwriting.
each was a masterpiece,
each was a song,
each told a story,
regardless of how illegible;
and i can't stand knowing
that i'll never get to fall in love
with her art ever again.

the moon that we share
will always outshine the clouds
that separate us.

"what's your favourite thing about me?" she asked.

she was chaos to me. she was  uncontrollable; she was a landscape - a waterfall, never ending and ever-flowing with a groundbreaking view. she had it all. she was untouchable, she was proud, yet she was vulnerable, she loved with every ounce of her. she was headstrong, yet she was delicate, and she was honest, she was real. she was like electricity, she was a thunderstorm, crashing and creating, and formed an unbreakable sight. she was a masterpiece. she could fuel a fire, and she could put one out, and although she was forever absent, she was always present, and she was mine. she was thrilling; she had a universe in her eyes, and i wasn't sure whether or not it was too great to venture into.

"all of you," i replied, "every last bit."