Everything is dust.
I found you on my bookshelf untouched.
I am sorry, I'll leave you there again and I'm never good at apologies.
I tried very hard to leave you alone, but you were this enigma.
I swear that the Gods put attracting magnets in both of us, because whenever I speak with you
I have this surge inside me, something that can't be explained.
It feels like we were written in the stars or some other *******.
I don't believe in that anyways.
Or I didn't, until you.
I am sorry that I wear nooses as necklaces, and I'm sorry that maybe you got tangled in them.
I'm sorry you couldn't breathe, because I wanted you to.
I want you to keep on breathing forever and when you can't anymore...
then I won't either.
I have a feeling that if you read this you'd be sick to your stomach.
I have a feeling that if I touched you again you wouldn't know why,
but you wouldn't ask.
You were just like that sometimes.
My candle flickers everytime I think of you, and I think it misses you as well.
I think that it needs you to stay aflame. I think I need you to stay aflame.

My neighbours are breaking some things out in the backyard and I kind of want to say
"hey, here's another thing you can break" and let them smash me into pieces with their hammer.
I think that would be a fun way to die.
You know, my brother asked me if I wanted to die in my sleep or of old age.
I said neither. I told him that I wanted to get in a big car wreck,
or murdered in an alley.
He asked why, and I consequently told him that I wanted to feel the life being pulled from me.
I told him you only die once. I don't think he was ready for that.
He is six.

If you were there you'd probably laugh and offer to be the one to ****** me.
In secret, I liked that about you.
I like that you clap your hands when you laugh.
I am sorry, I'll leave you there again.
I am sorry.
I'm never good with apologies.

I am sorry to her, also.
Because I never wanted her to hurt.
I was jealous that she gets you all the time.
I was jealous that she is your stars and your moon and your sun in the morning.
I only got to be a silhouette in your life. A shadowy figure clinging to dark magic and the shadows of ravens
in cemeteries where I imagined myself being buried.

I miss you so much and I've never even had you, how sad.
I think that someone like you almost always turns into a hurricane.
Everything good must come to an end and all those merry little details.
I've used up all of my metaphors on you.
I can't compare your eyes to anything else except for the most exquisite of art pieces,
and I've never been to a gallery.
I guess I'm not one to make judgement on anything.

I am so sorry for losing, but I am not sorry that you're winning.
You'll be much better now, and I think she makes you into more of a martyr.
I don't know how I feel about that.
The only poetic thing I can say to you now is "I'm sorry"
and even though I'm not good with apologies,
I really mean that.
I think now I've turned to dust.

You act like the flowers on my dress aren't alive,
like they won't root themselves in your hands when you touch me.

You looked at me with a mouthful of forevers
and I looked at you with stained glass eyes
that have never seen the inside of a church.

You act like my lips won't find you,
like they won't caress a map until they land on your hometown.
Until they touch your memories.

But that's all I will be soon- a memory.

Soon you'll realize that you have more flies in your house than loved ones
and you'll remember the day you pushed me away.

You were full of bad ideas and the color red.
Your hands reminded me of diamonds for some unknown reason.

You used to walk along the edge of the roof on apartment buildings
you said you were testing fate.
I called it testing the wind.
One bitter spit your way from the clouds and you'd be one with the cement.

I told you, "Stop batting your eyes at death darling",
it will greet you faster than you can say you wish you had more time.

I need you to keep my flowers alive.

Friends become strangers as fast as I was forgotten
beneath the quick pale of the moon.
Seemingly fleeting and self destructive, but really
just sad and lonely and broken from the past.

For a few months there I couldn't get out of bed.
I wrapped myself in blankets like I wanted to mummify myself.
Like I was already dead, and maybe I actually was.

I was foolishly waiting for someone to ask me if I was okay.
I was foolishly waiting to be missed.
But the girl who blends in with the night is never noticed by anything
but the quick pale of the moon.

And soon, painfully, forgetfully, I disappear.
Oblivion greets me like an old friend and I have no choice
but to smile and wave back, before taking its hand
and walking down the path of insanity.

I just wanted someone to save me.

But I don't know what they'd be saving me from.
Maybe myself.
Maybe the past.
But more likely, every bit of hurt that stains my soul
quite similarly to the way you stained my good blouse with your tears.
I didn't even mind, until I saw you across the street and you looked at me
like I was a stranger.

It's just me, the moon and everything else that shines in the night.
I'm wearing a sign that says save me.
And I was foolish to think that you might.

When I think about you my lungs forget how to work.
I miss you so bad I can't breathe or stop the hurt.

I think of you as the rock I skipped across the pond.
It skipped thirteen times before it sunk.
You lived thirteen years before you had enough.

I think that you were brave
but also so naive to think that nobody would miss you.
I think about you every day until my chest caves in.

Sometimes I look around at the world and start getting dizzy
because I know you're not here anymore.
I feel like I'm going to pass out when I think about you
being a skeleton in a dress somewhere underground.

For your sake I hope heaven exists.

For my sake I hope hell doesn't.

If my hands could tell a story, they'd say how your spine always looked beautiful in the morning,
when the sun's rays created shadows that danced along your back and flirted with your neck
like they'd never meet again.
They'd say how your lips always curved upwards as if they were saying hello.
If my hands could tell a fairytale, there'd be no happy ending,
there'd be no end at all.
I wish my lips could finally part to say the right things,
because all I want to do is hear your name roll off my tongue,
in the same sentence as "you're mine".
I want them to tell the story of your lips,
red, and taunting and always mysterious.
I always got a toothache when you weren't in the room.
I think I need a root canal.
If my knees could speak they'd tell you how lovely it was
to bend to curl to your legs.
If my knees could tell a story, they'd describe the cold, hard
bitter kiss of death they shared with the pavement so many times
when I found your bags at the door.
If my knees could beg, they'd ask for forgiveness.
For being too bony, too weak,
for not being able to support your dreams.
(I'd give up anything now for that little apartment in New York
and nothing but two typewriters)
If my fingers had a chance, they'd trace the familiar lines of your collarbones
and over your shoulders, because by now they've committed them to memory.
If my fingers had a chance, they'd hold yours again.
They say to stay away from broken people but I saw you as a puzzle
just waiting for someone to put you back together again.
If my eyes could tell a story they would whisper softly of your flowing hair
and pixie-like body.
They would ask you to stay.
They would jump out of my body to give you a glimpse of how I see you.
They would show you how utterly unprecedented you are.
If I believed in heaven I would tell you that you're a miracle.
That you are something I wished upon for years as a child.
You are a star.
You are a supernova.
You are a black hole, ******* me in and twisting me about until I am nothing
but battered limbs and my broken heart.
You are God with the Devil's kiss.
If my lips could move they'd say "stay".
You were mine.