twelve thirty-something in my sister's apartment
a moment of dancing and your lips met mine
tequila-stained breath and the sound of them talking
all disappeared at that moment in time.
Chocolate brown eyes and with a gaze I got lost in
What does this mean? Who is this guy?
your hands on my waist and the feeling of fire
all disappeared when you said goodbye.
Six months later you walk up my driveway
hands in your pockets, hair freshly done
lost in my sheets we spend half the day
How could this be? Is he the one?
One year later, we share the same bedroom
i sleep every night my head tucked in your arm
people's assumptions, is this happening too soon?
that feeling of fire is a slow constant warm.
You know all my secrets, we share the same hairbrush
we go and buy groceries, we laugh through the aisles
i know that I’ve said I’ve loved once before
but day after day you heal my inner child.
You hold my heart like it’s glass in your hands
Delicate and soft, precious as diamond
They always told me true love is worth waiting for,
but I never thought this was how I would find him.
I am yours in mind, and body, and soul
I’ll go through this life holding your hand in mine
and when our bones turn weary and old
when our breaths slow down and we know that it’s time
I’ll die smiling knowing I lived this life with you
we shared the best and the worst of our days
And when we depart I know I won’t miss you;
In every lifetime, I’ll love you this way.

it's been a year.
It's been a year and I think about the torn-up pieces of paper I used to hide in your room with notes scribbled in purple pen. I wonder about the last letter I ever wrote you. I asked you to remember all the little things that made us—the simplicities of our routine, the days that were for us to know. I asked you to remember me, but it's been a year and I don't remember who she was. It makes me sad to miss the girl that was yours, the girl you used to love.
I wake up early now. I prefer French press coffee but still love the hazelnut creamer. Coffee mate is better than delight. I make my bed almost every morning and I'm a big fan of house slippers. I drink lots of water but I need lemon flavoring in it. I haven't bought milk in months. I study at the kitchen table and never use my desk, I have a house plant that I've kept alive. I still have those singing tourettes you always mocked me for, and no I haven't finished the books I said I would. I listen to podcasts, I'm learning more about myself daily. I have new friends that you've never met. My favorite song is from an artist I didn't get the chance to show you. My mom got married, and we're not as close anymore. My sister has a new boyfriend and he's moving in with us. I don't drink at home very often, but when I do it's always wine. I have lived alone for the past few months, and I've become well acquainted with myself. I love my space, I love my solitude. I still play that one song by the Manchester orchestra, and it still makes me think of you. I don't check your profile as much anymore, but I see you're happy and my heart smiles for you. I miss your dog and your backyard and your sister, but I've mastered the art of grieving. There's still love for you in this heart of mine. I still look for your face in the front window of every gray Honda Civic, your license plate is still memorized. I'm not the girl you met in 2018, I'm not the girl you lost last spring. There are parts of me that with you I couldn't show. There are parts of me you'll never get to know.

Thank God.

There are days that my head feels too heavy for my neck to carry. Days that I wish my thoughts had a mute button or I could scream loud enough for them to find their way out of my mind. The truth is the demons have made their beds here, they've hung their pictures on the wall and painted the walls grey. I think they're here to stay. They've been flooding the place too often lately and I've been meaning to stick an eviction notice on their door but got too busy trying to teach myself how to breathe underwater. I don't like asking for help, I'd rather stare at the people in the windows. What their life is like, I don't know. I still convince myself it's better than mine. I don't like admitting that the pain doesn't hurt anymore. Somedays I just feel it more than others. My screams are silent and my tears are dry when they stream down my face. No one hears a thing. No one see's a thing. I am the deer in headlights that refuses to move out of the way, but the car swerves around me every time. Death has invited me over for dinner and life gave me a curfew. I wish the blood on my wrists didn't stain the clothes of the people who love me. I just don't know how to live in this skin when being alive is killing me. When being alive is keeping them happy.
I don't think living is supposed to feel like hands around my neck. Maybe one day it won't be so hard to breathe.

We're sitting on a train heading north, you are in the seat facing mine. Your gaze is set out the window but your thumb continues to trace my fingers. I am staring at you- your eyes are tired and you're wearing that hat that covers up the hair you didn't have time to comb.  We have two hours till this train stops and I'm trying to take in every moment. Time has only ever ignored my whims for it to slow down when I'm with you. I watch the snow fall, I watch your hands, I feel your skin and I smell the air- a city scent...and pizza. I try to take in these moments because they seem to slip away far too quickly. Life has no mercy on young love; It will not sit still for us. The sun will set as quickly as it rises. Summer will turn to fall, Winter will turn to spring and through the passing of seasons, I promise to love you in a way that's so constant you won't ever dread the changes.
I have these dreams that I'm in a church dressed in white, your eyes are set on mine from the end of the aisle. The benches are filled with every version of myself that has ever loved you. They're all smiling because they knew this day would come from the moment I laid eyes on you from across the street that summer evening.  I never believed in love at first sight until I saw your smile for the first time. Faith came to me like a sinner walking into the arms of God. You saw me naked before ever taking my clothes off. You made love to the deepest parts of who I am and touched my heart in ways that left me shaken more than your hand between my thighs ever could. I fell in love with life the day you told me you could see yourself falling in love with me and I believed in forever the day you told me you did.
Here’s to forever,
I love you Dan.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else.

I've written about love before him.  

I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear.
I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey.
I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day...

and then comparing it to pain.

I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring;
but I've never had a favorite poem of mine.
I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home. 

 But now I do.

We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine.
Time doesn't exist between him and I.
I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine.
At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards.
Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile.  Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me.

I thank July for bringing me love.

I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying.
I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me.
Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure.

This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.

I keep trying to remember the way your lips tasted. Or how they felt brushing against mine while you breathed into me. I try to remember what your voice sounded like, the way you looked at me. I try to remember how your hands felt. My mind is making up for the nights I couldn't get you out of it because his face is starting to fill the spot in my memory where yours used to be. I can't recall the sound of your voice but I can feel his breath on my neck while his hands trace the grooves in my back and I'm starting to be okay with my conscience letting you go. My sheets are stained with a new scent, a spiced applewood mixed with drugstore hair gel and I can't help but bathe in it as it erases the smell of her skin on your mouth from the back of my mind. There's something different about you and him. He says he isn't going to leave with the kind of certainty that masks any sort of lie he could be hiding and the kind of desire that makes me forget to look for it. He touches me with a softness that reminds me that your hands were not meant for this body, a softness that comes from hands that will stay loyal to this skin.