You know its love when the ring of your doorbell sounds like a melody after his fingers push it, when he's already inside before you get to the door. You know it's love when your welcome mat looks more appealing with his ***** shoes on it and when hello is on the tip of your tongue but his is already in your mouth. It's love when you prefer to see yourself in his eyes than any other revealing glass. It's love when when your favorite song is the sound of his humming when he's deep in focus, and you can't pull your eyes away from his pouted lip when he's lost in thought. When you enjoy the way his hands neatly wrap around his fork, the way his jaw moves when he speaks or chews, the way he pours his coffee. You know it's love when he stares at you just as long with your clothes on as he does when they're off. When he says he's in love with your thoughts more than he's in love with your skin. When the silence is full, when you aspire to love yourself the way he does.
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.
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You know its over when the doorbell stops ringing. When his shoes and your welcome mat are no longer familiar with each other. It's over when his hand never meets with your doorknob and when 'I love you' is on the tip of your tongue but his is already in someone else's mouth. Its over when you can't see yourself in his eyes because he never makes contact with yours. It's over when you start reminiscing, when you start  gazing at walls for hours, when you start touching the skin of everyone you meet trying to remember the way he felt. You know its over when your thoughts stay bottled up because he's no longer there to spill them to. You know its over when you no longer appreciate the smell of coffee because it reminds you of the way he poured it. It's over when you wake up in strangers bed trying to get him out of your mind. It's over when you realize that the love you shared is one that you'll ever be able to find

She's the open window and the closed door.
She's stale and bitter, but tastes as sweet as freshly picked fruit on days the sun rays make love to her skin.
She's everything she tried her hardest to be, she's everything she didn't want to become.
She's the kind of girl who drinks herself to sleep on Sunday nights, hoping to find him in the same level of desperation.
She basques in his absence, she grieves in loneliness.
She is not who she is, she is a side effect of who she was made to be.
I've never seen anything like her.
I've never known anything like her
I was always aware of her, but I never feared her.
I never knew she'd become real to me.
But I found her. I found her in the bathroom this morning.
I found her once my head came up from the faucet after swallowing six pills too many.
I found her in the honest glass.
She smiled at me and glanced down at my trembling hands.
I looked her in the eyes, and welcomed her home.

I've come to the conclusion that it's possible to stare at the ceiling for so long you can feel it staring right back. There are some spaces on the walls that my eyes gaze onto for longer and there's some parts of my bed in which i'd rather lay. There was something about the way the sheets felt against my skin this morning that seemed as though they were trying to protect me from the truth this day would hold. There's something about the way the birds sang louder as if they were trying to overlap the sound of you leaving. There's something about the way I could feel a breeze from the door downstairs, as though you we're so rushed to get out that you couldn't take an extra moment to shut it properly. I should have seen it coming, I should have told you that you've mistaken. I should of told you that I never needed you but I never enjoyed the thought of waking up alone. There's something about the way you told me you'd never leave that sounded a lot like the way my father told my mother he loved her, I should of been quicker to point out the lie. But how do you tell someone to stay while dreaming of inviting someone else in? It was never you. It was me. Lately I've been feeling like maybe its less about the way 'i love you' sounded when i was saying it, and more about who was in mind; it was never you. I'm sorry that I'd only stay in bed with you till you fell asleep, you were simply a rain drop in the ocean. I fall in love with downpours. I love closed doors and black walls.
We're different. You're gone, I'm okay.

I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

I promise you a love that never dies. A love as real as a rose freshly blooming in the spring, a love that stays as beautiful as the fake bouquet in the window pane of your mother’s kitchen.
I promise you minimal space between our skin, I promise you undying sparks when our lips enfold like pages of romance novels.
I promise a smile that medicates to the pain you feel in your heart, I promise eyes that can identify where your suffering is making home.
I promise words as powerful as eviction notices on the door of your mind, I promise to never stop rolling them off my tongue until the demons make their way out.
I promise to open the curtains just enough for the rays of the morning sun to kiss your bare back. I promise to close them at night and hold you till you feel comfortable in the silence and darkness.
I promise to whisper my love into your ears so you can always fall asleep to the sound of truth.
I promise you days where we stay inside and listen to the rain slide down the glass windows. I promise to stay when the ground dries up. I promise to never make you feel the way your father did, I promise to always remind you that your worth is amplified in my eyes.
I promise so many things, but mainly to love as though it’s the only thing I am capable of doing.
I promise to love you till our skin cracks and our bones turn to dust. I promise to love you when the singing of church bells marks our departure.
I promise to love you when our home changes from brick walls, to mounds of soil.
I promise to love you as long as I am alive and ever after.

My mom once told me, I should talk to you about God.
because maybe I could help you get away from the clutches of evil.
She could smell the cigarettes off your jacket from miles away,
as well as the liquor on your breath the days you showed up late.
Do you remember the time she brought us to church?
I held your hand in the pews and you never let "amen" escape your mouth.
You never bowed your head or closed your eyes.
I remember you told me that you've never felt more out of place, and that the preachers voice stung your ears.
I guess I should of realized that you can't save someone that basques in their own misery.
Until one day I walked out to find you on the porch with a cigarette between your fingers, begging him to take the pain away.
You always prayed to him, I never noticed it.
You told me that you don't find God on your knees Sunday mornings,
but he's the voice you hear calling out your name when you're intoxicated Saturday nights.
Do you remember when I asked you what you prayed for?
and as you blew up the smoke from your chapped lips you whispered "Change".
It was never the kind you found at the bottom of a wishing well, but rather the one that you haven't seen since the day your mom left.
You never looked me in the eyes when we talked about what makes you cry at night, or the reason you keep going back home when its the last place you want to be.
The tremble of your voice when you confided that "God doesn't help people like me" has never crawled out the seams of my mind.
I still remember one year later, finding your name in the obituaries.
I still cry every night that God couldn't find a way to ease away your suffering.
I still thank you for hanging on for so long.
I'm sorry I never know what to say when people ask what I loved about you, other than "everything he hated about himself"

I constantly find myself reaching out to the side of my bed where you used to lay, and disappoint myself to have even set an expectation that I might have been able to touch your skin. I won’t lie, I've let myself fall asleep in the arms who have dared to hold me, but they've never felt like you. The day I woke up alone to a single sun ray beaming on my cheek, I realized that I held love in my hand almost as tightly as you held the door handle the day you left & I guess that’s been sitting on my mind for so long that I forget to welcome in any other thoughts. I let myself hate who I am, because you couldn't love me the way I thought you did. I hear people talk of love as though it’s the sweetest thing they've ever tasted, while I sit there listening with a bitter blandness on my tongue. I find myself clutching onto bottles of ***** and pills I never end up popping, almost as though my hands have the habit of holding on too tightly to things that aren't good for me. The problem is that I've never found this feeling in anything else but you. I've never longed for something so badly to the point that without it, I can’t function. My knees are so heavy, my head is constantly spinning I try to see the reflection of your face in the windows at night when I play your favorite songs. I write with my fingers in the snow till they go blue, messages to remind me this isn't permanent so that when the sun comes out and they melt, they will have been proving it all along. Trust me when I say, numb fingers can never forget the feeling of something so warm. And kissed lips will always remember the ones that made them tremble.