Some nights I’m not filled with words,
I’m just filled with so much of you.
You’re making more space in this ribcage;
it was always saving a spot
for your heart anyways.
You give the moon light to reflect,
and I swear the stars would fall for you tonight.

I woke up early today.
There’s no point in continuing to sleep
when I’m no longer dreaming about you.
Every hour through the night is spent
with you inside my head,
and sometimes my mind makes me forget it
so I’ll live it in reality instead.
Last night I dreamed that everything you’ve done
was done all over, except this time with me.
You might not have even noticed,
but I was there.
I saw your face change with the seasons,
and your heart change with them too.
I saw how you handled rainy days
when the sky refused to be blue.
I was there while you sat up through the night,
through the day.
I was there for every smile
and every mistake.
I was there.
And I’m still here.
It’s rainy outside today,
but I’m happier than ever.
You might be there,
I might be here,
but I’ll see you again tonight.

Love is not four letters put together.
It’s you and me laying underneath the night sky
on a blanket too small to fit both of us.
It’s me wanting your eyes more than
any of the stars above us.
Love is not the words found on our lips.
It’s the silence I found your heart in at 3 am.
It’s the silence you found mine in too.
Love doesn’t live inside our hearts.
It’s carved into our bones.
It itches in our fingers.
Love is what keeps the pieces inside of me
together when I feel your hand brush mine.
And on the days that leave you at your weakest,
I will pull you close and remind you
that I’m still here,
and love is not just a feeling.
It was never just a feeling.
It’s the liquid you’ve put in my veins.
It’s the warmth I feel
when I wake up every morning.
I’m all out of metaphors.
To put it quite simply:
love is what I see in you.
And you are beautiful;
every piece.

My back has been sore the past week.
I’ve spent too much time
picking up pieces
that I should have left on the ground.
It’s okay to fall apart.
I’ve heard people say
you can put yourself
back together.
I say you can’t.
You must grow new pieces.
The old ones don’t fit.
They will never fit.
You must grow new pieces.
It will hurt.
It will take time.
But by the time you’re finished
you will be filled with
what keeps stars from burning up.
There will be nothing that can
dim your glowing heart,
nothing that can break your
burning bones.
No one will be able to steal
the sunlight in your fingers.
I know some nights will shatter you.
You will fall apart.
It’s okay to fall apart,
because you will grow new pieces.

This is for every sinking heart.
For every sleepless night.
Every set of lungs
gasping for whatever
will keep them from collapsing.
I know that air is not enough.
I guess my eyes couldn’t hold
my weariness any longer,
because it floods all my bones now.
An ocean inside each one,
and I’m still dying of thirst.
I cannot stop the pounding in my head,
the pounding in
my head,
the pounding
in
my
head.
I feel nothing.
I feel everything.
It’s okay.
Let me be.
Ghosts don’t like to lie down anyways,
they’re too busy filling my head.
The floor will feel softer one day.
It will feel softer one day.
I hope it feels softer one day.

My eyes have been dry the past few days,
my mouth too.
I’ve been wearing my glasses more
and drinking too much water.
Is it possible to drink too much water?
Some say you can never drink too much.
I’m not sure.
All I know is that I can’t dilute
the concentration of you in my blood.
It’s become too thick.
I’ve been tripping over cracks and
folded carpet corners that don’t exist.
I’m not sure how I find my footing again
with the pounding in my head
and all the silence in my bones.
It’s the kind of silence I wish
I could share with you.
I’ve been tripping over myself,
like there’s knots holding me together.
And I’ve seen your fingers tie knots before,
how you delicately labor over each one.
How the perfect amount of string
is always left over for them.
I’ve seen you tie knots before,
because you’ve tied them with my heart,
and I don’t think they’ll ever come undone.
Oh, I don’t think they’ll ever come undone.

I’ll read you poetry,
even if you don’t want to listen.
I’ll bring you flowers,
even when you say you don’t want them.
I’ll collect all the pieces you dropped
on your way from the front door
to the bedroom,
even though you told me
to leave them where they were.
I will bring you tea in bed,
and extra blankets on soft Winter nights
when snow gently covers foggy streetlights.
I will love you on days
when the Sun is too lazy to show its face
and I will love you on days
when you are too weak to show yours too.
I will love you on days
when your ears are ringing
and your fingers are numb.
I will love you on days
that start with the letter “M”,
or “T” or “W” or “F” or “S”
or any other letter that has or will ever exist,
and I will love you on days
even when you feel I shouldn’t be able to.
I will fill your cracks with grace
and stitch your wounds with everything
that I have left.
Please trust me,
I promise my hands will be steady,
even though they shake
when you reach for them.