Darkness.

He settles on my skin like an absent touch; His hands the hands of a past love tracing my outline and raising my skin.

He whispers to me in dreams. What was once, and what could be, he lingers in the thoughts I can't control.
He breathes silence in the space between us, enclosing every inch of my body in his icy exhalation.
He is the coldest of comforts.

He is fearful, but I do not fear him.

His chasm of understanding and attentiveness is an infinite book of blank pages to be filled. He hears me. He listens.

He Is the giver of time that nobody wants. He provides. When I am at war with my thoughts at 3 AM, he is on my side.
He does not lie, unless it is along side of me. On top of me. All around me. He is consuming.  

He is untrustworthy, but I have given him mine.

He is the quietest of melodies. His song cradles me into sleep, and I feel him beside me as I drift away.
When I awake in the morning he has always left, but is never really gone.
In the brightest of rays, I can still see him.

He controls me like an illness, but only with my consent.

Darkness.
If ever I wanted to leave him, would he let me?
Could I cleanse my soul after his touch?  
If I ignored his approach in the eve,
would he still be kind to me when the daylight faded?


I'm afraid to find out.

I don't know a lot of things,
I don't know why leaves should be green and skies should be blue,
I don't know what can drive a person to do some of the things that they do,
I don't get why people can't just talk about how they feel,
And I will probably never learn to determine the difference between what is fake and what's real,
But I think I've learned
One must suffer into the truth because they cannot know true happiness without pain,
Heavenly bread should never be the cost of an earthly gain,
The only person you owe anything to is you,
And you deserve to be happy, no matter sins you've committed and ones you will do,
And the one thing I know to be infallibly true,
Is no matter what I tell myself, what I say, I think I may love you
But you don't feel the same way as me
And that's okay too

I hadn't cried in years.  
I was always taught that strength
was not having the courage to let yourself feel but
******* it up, holding it in.
I am sick of "You're going soft on us, honey"
Today I came to understand that
you are completely okay with writing the same poem
over and over again.
This is a metaphor for the way you ****** her in my bed.
This is a metaphor for the night you copy and pasted love letters.
This is a metaphor for what really happened-
I never fall in the same place twice.
Except when I do.
I think the critical difference between the two of us,
critical because there are many differences
but- I think our hamartia, our fatal flaw,
our end scene is this:
if people didn't like my poetry, if nobody listened,
if I walked out on stage and nobody snapped their
fingers, I would still write for just your eyes.
I would still cramp my crooked, birth defect,
quadruple jointed fingers writing to you about the nights
you loved me back,
for a minute there you loved me back.
And you loved 20,000 other people back.
And you loved small towns back and big cities back and the entire west coast
back when you drove through, making temporary homes out of people
who should have been permanent
and I loved you.
And I hadn't cried in years.
Not because I wasn't sad, but because I was taught that showing emotion
was weakness.
So if my father made me memorize the How To's of strength,
if I were going by the book, today I'd be so fragile
you could say hello and I'd shatter so suddenly you'd
forget you were the one that let go.

In just one moment
We exchanged a glance
My words stolen, by her
striking beauty, I was struck
left stuttering with a mind
put-puttering and a heart
flut-fluttering

There is magic in her eyes
filled with love,
effervescing skies
of scintillating stars

There is mystery in the heart
of her, like an infinitely
blossoming flower