My heart is a cold stigma
It is the epitome of the frozen winter.
Dark
Desolate
Absolute zero

Your heart however
Is the illustration of the warm summer
Bright
Exciting
Beckoning

Now there's not just distance between us,
But seasons as well.

Sometimes
I still shake
From things
That are over.

Sometimes
I still feel
Sullied.
Blackened.

But sometimes
I put on your sweatshirt,
And I feel safe.

And sometimes
I hear your voice
And the tears no longer
Threaten to fall.

Sometimes
I'm not okay.

And sometimes
I am.

I sit on the bed by the window
Naming the falling leaves.
You sit between the scribbled paper walls
Counting the ever-opened scars.
While the coffee grows colder,
I think of you,
Seven hundred and seventy seven
Kilometers away.
While the bottle falls empty?
You hit the floor with it,
About a thousand
Worlds away.

I hold my hand out in the void
In case yours reaches.
You hold still on the damp floor.
Empty bottles are old friends..

I whisper like madmen, words
I don't understand.
You silently hold your breath, while
Inside storms are raging.
Fracturing physical form,
Savagely splintering spirits,
Shattering shimmering souls
In the incessant night, ****** red hue
Flowing
From Little girl Blue.

I always thought art had to be hard.
There had to be some deep inner struggle, some magical spiritual resonance
That gave art meaning

I thought love was about pomp and circumstance
That it had to be verbose, brash
I pined and flirted and thought I knew love
I knew nothing

I haven't changed much
I am a different shape but the same shade
I've found art in puddles, and love in myself
But I'm still learning
I'm sure I'll still write poetry
That's pompous and shallow
But now I'll know a little but more
About the pieces of myself

And maybe one day I'll figure out who I will be.