I’m sitting in the spot
where I wrote my first poem,
but all I can think about is you.
I suppose writing your first poem
and seeing your first poem
are two very different things.

Maybe I messed things up.
Maybe that humid, cloudy day
wasn’t supposed to be
the last time I would see you.
Maybe it was.
Maybe distance wasn’t the problem.
Because 1,002 miles can keep
a lot of things apart, except for words.
And maybe I just didn’t have any left,
or maybe I just ran out.
Maybe I was scared.
Maybe it was for the better.

Ernest Hemingway once said
"Write drunk; edit sober."
But to hell with that,
I'll give you my worst.
I'll give you all the pieces
when my heart decides it's too much
or too little
and my mind forgets the difference.
I swear I'll sink right through the floorboards
if you don't find someway to fill the spaces.
You are the sand clenched in my
scraped up palms,
sticking to the worst parts of me;
the ones that everyone else finds
too messy,
too broken,
too tired,
too empty.
You find someway to keep my broken limbs
moving forward, even when I have nothing left.
I have nothing left.
There is nothing left.
And I've checked this over a thousand times
to make sure every letter is in its proper place.
It must be perfect,
even if I'm not.
Because even if I give you my worst,
you always deserve more than my best.

Can you handle me on sleepless nights
after midnight when past regrets
turn into future fears?
Will you be able to calm that sea?
Because my teeth feel loose inside my mouth
and some days I worry too much.
Some days my clothes are a tad bit too big
or too small,
and my glasses don’t sit right.
I guess they still keep you in focus.
I wonder what you’d think
if you saw all the thoughts I had.
What if I’m not enough?
You’d think it’d be a question
but some days it just becomes a statement
that I bury underneath fearful eyes.
I guess I forget that it can be answered.
But what if?
What if I’m not enough.

I just wanted to be the sunlight
that woke you up in the morning,
the warmth you wouldn’t mind
slipping through the curtains.
But I suppose it’s enough
for me to be
the memory
you hope to forget.

I drove past your house yesterday
and wondered if you still remember
how I look,
sound,
feel.
Foolish, I know.
It's so beautifully arrogant though,
how you still demand to be felt.

I found you.
Amidst distant humming grasshoppers
and humid evening air,
I found you.
Or maybe you found me.
Maybe you’re finding me.
2 am came early last night;
our words far too honest,
our eyes far too tired.
Maybe our bones too.
Ignoring time’s mandates you
ripped my heart straight from my chest
with bare hands
(living)
(pulsing)
(messy)
and laid it on the table next to yours.
I’m still not sure how to put it back,
so I’ll carry it around with both hands
until you’re there to examine it again.
And I’ll spend all the time apart wondering
why it feels better
outside of my ribcage.

I’ve gone color blind from staring
at the sun for too long,
or maybe at you for too long.
The leaves and sky seem to blend together.
Days start to blend together.
I hope the grass doesn’t bother you,
because my legs feel as if they’re made of it.
Always collapsing on each other,
even though I wish they’d collapse onto yours.
The worn out Oak that has spent today with us
is giving everything it has left,
but it fails to keep hints of sunlight from your face.
Sunlight always finds your face.
For as honest as we are,
you told me today that we are liars,
and I cannot disagree.
Because even though I say, “Nothing.”
when you ask what’s running through my mind,
I see oceans in your eyes
and constellations on your lips.

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.

One day you might look back,
and you might not remember
how I cracked open
my already splintered ribcage
to give you whatever I had
left inside.
You might not remember
how stars went dim
when we walked in empty streets.
You might not remember
silences that felt too full,
or nights that felt too short.
But please,
please remember;
at least I tried.

You know, I almost called the other night.
Almost.
I’d like to think that
you would’ve almost picked up,
and I would’ve almost said something.
It’s a good thing I’ve almost lost your number;
I could get lonely someday
and forget that you almost wanted to stay.
I forget a lot nowadays.
I almost called the other night, you know.
But I’ve learned that “almost”
only counts in “I love you’s”
and “goodbye’s”.
Maybe I’ll almost sleep tonight.
It’s strange that I keep dreaming
about the night we walked around the city.
I always end up on the park bench
by your house,
waiting.
I’ve almost stopped wishing you’d show up.

You always use the back button
on your phone,
never the home button.
You’re scared of exiting something completely.
You’re scared of leaving things behind.
You’re scared that home will take you far away.
But home was never meant to be something
to run away from.
It isn’t the park down the street
where you played as a kid,
or the hardwood floor you collapse onto
when hours past midnight become
too much to handle.
It’s not the splintered wood and bent nails
that keep the four walls around you standing.
Home doesn’t have an address.
Home never had an address.
Home was always right here with you.
It’s always right here with you.
So when things become too much
and you feel too weak to push forward,
you will learn to push the home button,
and you will find me.
I will be home for you.
I will always be home for you.

Tonight I let go.
I let go.
Oh God, I let go.
I just never knew I could.
But I won’t let it haunt me any longer.
You’ve spent enough time inside this head.
I refuse to be brought down
by what you expected me to be.
And I refuse to let the man I’ve been
hold back the man I’m supposed to be.
I’m not collecting any pieces,
and I’m not filling any holes,
because I’ve been here all along
and now I’ve been set free.
Now I see what it’s like
to let love burst past all the dams,
and how it feels to flood my veins
instead of all the fear I had.
Tonight I let go,
so that these aching hands can grasp
and this surging heart can love.
I let go
to make space for so much more.

I hate buying milk.
I always think about
where I’ll be when it reaches
its expiration date,
and how you still
won’t be there with me.

You are not like the sea.
It will never be deep enough,
nor calm enough,
nor lovely enough
to ever hold your substance.
You have engulfed all of it;
every salty drop now sits in lungs
that hold the air I need to survive.
And I will dive as deep as I must
to find the caverns that keep it.
Tides cascade through brimming veins
and currents surge through swelling limbs.
One deep breath is all it takes
to force the sea into your eyes.
And you will hold it there forever;
the tranquil green pools
like puddles forming from
the deepest ocean floors.
You are not like the sea.
You will never be like the sea.
The sea is like you.

Some nights these words aren’t enough.
I want more than just memories of you.
Because no combination of letters
can resemble how soft your skin was
and how deep your eyes went
every night we tried to capture stars
in our drifting hearts.
Because open fields weren’t enough
to contain all the love you had to give
and no ocean could ever calm the
restlessness of our bones.
Late nights left us both in ruin,
I just hope you can forget now.
Sometimes these words just aren’t enough.
No matter how hard I try.

I don't sleep much anymore.
It's the same as when we first met,
even though it's not the same.
I used to think "alone" was an adjective,
now I know it's just the state
of not fitting anywhere.
I don't fit anywhere.
There's nowhere to call home.
I hate being awake,
it just reminds me you're not here.
I hate being asleep,
it just reminds me that I'll wake up.
I don't write much anymore.
I have nothing left.
Words can't describe the 
pounding in my head,
or the emptiness in my bones.
So when you ask, "What's wrong?",
I don't have much to say besides,
"I don't sleep much anymore."

My hands are full of cement,
I do not forget.
Currents run through your fingertips,
I trace honesty along the edges of your ribcage.
Do not look back.
Your head is not a home for liars.
This is meant to be felt.
Come close,
I will show you how much you exist.
I do not forget.

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.

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.

There are things I think about doing with you,
like folding laundry with the windows open
and hearing the crickets chirp outside.
Like listening to the turning ceiling fan slowly
make its way around itself,
while we dance and make our way
around each other in the center of the room.
And you stumble slightly on the edge of the rug
that always rolled up a little bit,
but I am there to catch you.
I know you tried every day to fix that corner,
but you need not worry.
I will always be there to catch you.
I know you try every day to not crumble
and shatter into thousands of little pieces.
I know you’re scared,
but you need not worry.
I will always be there to catch you.

Your steady fingers have left stains on my heart.
I suppose that’s why they call it an *****,
because you seem to play it so well.

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.

I fell out of love with the bottom half of the sky today.
It reminded me of home.
I've grown weak carrying a half splintered heart.
It only floats on the third Wednesday of the month
and holidays that start with "yesterday."
It's all the same.
I'd rather drown.
I think home is where you don't feel so alone.
I've tried, you know.
It's all the same.
I've left two voicemails for whoever lives here now.
I think they're sorry they're so empty.
It's just been so quiet lately.
I am tired,
and so very far from home.

1933.15 kelvin.
The melting point of titanium,
and the temperature I'm sure
your eyes surpass,
because my heart is sinking
through the floorboards
and I'm melting in your hands.
Liquid metal should be a contradiction
because that is what I am around you.
A turbulent sea.
A placid puddle.
I only hope that I pool
in the nooks inside your chest,
and you find some way
to make me solid again.
Only you can make me solid
again.

These words are for your lips
because I know how much you hate them.
I will use my own to lay these letters on them,
and I promise I will be as soft as the words
you spoke to me before the sun woke up.
I will sink my teeth into every crack and gaping crater,
and I will fill them with everything I have left.
My fingers will trace each newly opened scar,
and I will mend each one with suture made from steel.
And as you slowly chip away, I will
keep all of your pieces together,
because you do not need to be whole to be complete.
You do not need to be whole to be complete.

I swear things will get better.
Even skinned knees and scraped palms
take some time to heal.
And you are chiseled marble,
sculpted into something lovely.
Stronger than diamonds,
and more beautiful too.
Your eyes reflect hardened obsidian,
birthed from flowing fire itself.
You might still be in pieces,
but you will be rebuilt.
And I will help.
So please, let me handle your scars.
I want to know them inside and out.
I promise I’ll be gentle, I know how tender they can be.
I am well trained in unsettled regrets after midnight,
and fluent in the language of comforting silence.
I know each jagged ridge holds so much you’ve lost
or tried to gain.
I know how much they mean to you.
I promise I’ll be gentle.

When I was younger I always used to
see how long I could hold my breath
under water.
I never realized that I was preparing
myself for days
(for weeks)
like these when the surface is far beyond
my reach and water begins to fill my lungs.
I should have taught my bones to survive
on something other than air,
but here I am; driving with the windows down
on nights that sink below 50 degrees,
just so the wind can try and keep me company.
It does a terrible job you know.
It keeps telling me that it will be okay,
but I’m still hitting every red light.
And as I pass by arching power lines
I wonder which ones lead in your direction.
I wonder how long it would take me to get there.
I’ve been traveling around too much lately
anyways.
Nothing feels like home anymore.
I miss you.

It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.

I’m scared.
I’m scared that one day I’ll be numb,
that quiet fields at 3 am
will no longer remind me of you,
that I won’t notice worn cracks in the sidewalk,
that this smile I wear might actually be real.
I’m scared this heart is empty,
because you took everything when you left it.
I’m scared because you saw every corner of it
and you didn’t run.
I’m scared to love,
because I know how it feels when I’ve lost it.
I’m scared because the words don’t come easy anymore.
Because I can write a poem for each one of the trees
outside my window,
but I can never find the words for you.
They wait patiently in the distance between us,
so I guess these simple ones will have to do.
I’m sorry.
I’m scared that one day the ink inside these veins will dry up,
and the letters won’t arrange themselves the way I want.
But maybe that’s already happened,
because this is how it feels to have all the things to say
and no way to say them.
I’m scared.
I’m scared because these words are all that I have left,
and you’re not here to read them.

These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

I remember every metaphor I used for you.
It’s beautiful how quickly I ran out.
It was just so difficult to describe
a forest at the bottom of an ocean on fire.
You were soft,
I was quiet.
I remember every park bench,
every broken sidewalk,
every open sky.
It was so whole.
I remember breathing,
and the lovely amount of effort it required.
I hope you do too.
They say writers remember the important things;
I say they are liars.
I remember you wore a purple flannel
the first time I saw you,
even though it isn’t your favorite colour.
I remember that you take your coffee black,
and your tea with plenty of honey.
I remember the way your eyes changed colour
based on the weather,
and the way you looked at the sky,
like it was endless.
You were endless.
I remember everything you taught me.

They say writers remember the important things;
I remember you.

I’m falling desperately for pieces of you,
and all of you at the same time.
I know I’ve stumbled in so deep,
but there’s still more for me to find.
If you’d like you can call me a fool,
and I’ll be as foolish as they come,
but that still won’t explain how
your eyes make me go numb.
I’m keeping every little bit,
because I can’t bear
to let it go.
The subtle curve your soft lips make
when they hear me say your name,
and the freckle on your collarbone,
your right, my left.
I think of how I feel so much more than skin
when you simply brush against me.
Your hand in mine.
My left, your right.
This isn’t a poem,
it’s a 3 am conversation on your basement couch
and a quiet night spent on the bench next to the lake.
I can never write poems about you,
because it’s impossible to write a poem
about poetry itself.

I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.

I said I’d never write about you again,
but I suppose I’m just as good at lying
as I am at leaving.
I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like.
I always criticized you for not letting go,
as if the weights around my ankles
weren’t made of my faults
and everything I wish I could take back.
You told me today that
you’ve found love again.
I hope he finds flowers growing
from all the cracks I created
in your heart.
I hope he sees galaxies
in the darkened voids
I left behind your eyes.
I hope he understands
that you are full of splintered doors
on rusted hinges
that need to be loved and not repaired.
I hope he is nothing like me.
I’m sorry my words left scars.
I’m sorry my silence
reopened them constantly.
I’m sorry I was too busy
loving myself,
instead of loving you.

I should have realized
from all of the half-filled
coffee cups that
you’d leave everything
unfinished.

There is a room of everything I wish I’d said.
It tastes of everything that’s empty.
I brush until my mouth bleeds.
Do not touch me with your forgiving eyes,
I do not deserve to be whole.
There is an ocean full of light here somewhere,
I heard it.
It’s a shame I cannot swim,
there is so much I can’t lose.
You said you’d be here.
You said you’d be here.
Maybe one day.
One day it will exist.
The place where we remember.
Where everything remembers.
But it has been quiet lately.
I am everywhere but here.

There is a room of everything you wish you’d said.
It tastes of everything that’s empty.
I stay until my mouth bleeds.

I made four blueberry muffins for breakfast.
I wore a sweater three sizes too big,
and sat on a futon two sizes too small,
reading a book I've only halfway finished
in twice the amount of time it would take
to write it.
I drove without my windshield wipers on,
three-quarters hoping I wouldn't make it
a quarter of the way across town.
I tried to picture myself walking around
without pulling my past along
behind me.
I tried,
but that doesn't matter.
**** today.
I only thought about you
while they were in the oven.
I only pictured you waking up
and feeling okay
every time I turned the page.
I leaned over and looked through
the right side of my windshield
to see the view you once had.
And the scars on my palms
are reopened every day
as I drag around everything
I cannot let go.

I woke up with a headache this morning,
I think I drank too much of you last night;
even if most of it was in silence.
But silence is what you make it,
and there’s no need for words
when I can hear your heart beating
from across the table
and your pupils are larger than the lids of
the two unfinished coffees that sit in my car.
I desperately search for something to grasp,
so I must avoid your eyes
because they’re far too much to handle.
So I find the freckle just above
the end of your right eyebrow,
and the extra hole in your ear
that you did not fill with jewelry tonight.
I pretend that every day I will see you,
and today you are the deep blue sky
filled with wispy clouds;
an ocean of reminders that
there’s so much more to find
inside of you.

I just wanted to be alive.
After all, you were sunlight
and my eyes were still tired
from just waking up.
I am waiting for time to
catch up with the weather.
3 AM used to feel so much warmer.
I see stars and think about
the patterns that run through
your skin,
the constellations that run through
your veins.
I will never have a chance
to trace them all,
but my God,
they are beautiful.

It's been raining a lot lately.
I still think about you
more than I probably should.

I guess some things don't change.
I guess some things do.

Some nights these thoughts
are all I have.
Some nights they are thoughts
I hope you have yourself.
Like early mornings with oversized sweaters
and coffee a bit too warm,
with a slight fog
and gentle rain outside.
Like mid evening spent on a soft grassy hill
with a calming breeze
and wispy clouds.
Like battling 4 am as it tries
to sink our drooping eyelids,
holding on only by
anchoring our eyes to one another.
Some nights they are words.
Some nights they are what keeps me company
when I drift into six hours
of softened slumber.
Some nights they are hopes.
Other nights they are needs.
Every night they are about you.

I opened the blinds.
I took a deep breath.
I reminded myself that I exist.
I let you go.

It was a routine morning.

I want you to be unsure of
the words you want to say,
because I know I sure as hell am.
I’d rather live half way in the past
than lose something I never had.
And don’t you dare call me a coward
just because I’m scared to write these words.
You can’t love me.
You’re not allowed to love me.
I won’t let you.
Because you deserve the ocean
and I can only offer droplets.
Slipping sand right through my fingers,
crumbling rock beneath my feet.
Every glowing star goes dim
when your eyes reflect their light.
And I can’t stomach hopeful answers
from even more hopeful lips, but I will try.
I will try.
I will try to grow new gardens
from ancient soil in my heart.
Perhaps this time it’s ready,
perhaps it will spread through every limb.
And you might say I’ve jumped
right into the deep end,
but it’s the only way I know how to swim.

I used to hate my middle name,
until the first time I heard you say it.
It slipped out from behind your lips
like a leaf caught in a gentle Fall breeze.
It seemed to fit perfectly right between
my first name and three other words
I’ll never say to you again.
It lived inside your mouth,
(I guess I did too)
and it (I) never felt safer anywhere else.
And when I lost you I hated it for a while.
I hated when I heard people say it,
because those parts of me only belonged to you
for such a long time.
But now I’m okay.
Because it’s a part of me,
and I think you always will be too,
even though my names not yours to keep
anymore.

To say I’ve lost control is to assume
I had some to begin with.
But you were the turbulent rushing tide
and I’m just the shore you leave and then return to.
I’ve taken a lot of things that weren’t mine
and been given a lot of things I don’t deserve.
You happened to be both.
And I might never be happy,
but at least I’m getting by.
I wish you would do the same.

If this is honesty,
then I’m tired of being afraid.
If it’s not, then I’m just tired.
(of being afraid)
It’s exhausting.
It’s all exhausting.
Waking up.
Falling asleep.
And yet I do it so well.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the ocean.
It doesn’t mind change.
Maybe I shouldn’t either.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I should take up smoking.
At least I’ll taste something different
inside these lungs.
I knew you wouldn’t stay for very long.
I could tell by the way
you looked at the airplanes, the clouds,
me.
I meant it when I said you’re worth it.
I’m sorry you didn’t rea—
I’m sorry for all the apologies.
It’s taken 8 months to figure out
that this wasn’t my fault.
I’m still standing;
rotting crossbeams and chipped up paint,
I’m still standing.
Maybe I should take up smoking.

I shouldn't let it bother me.
I'm starting to think
there's something wrong with my head.
I'd like to think everyone would tell me to let go.
I'd like to think I would if I knew how.
I still write you poems.
Not on paper of course,
I can't just leave them around your house anymore.
I found one in the corner of my ceiling last night.
It had something about the ocean and your skin.
I smiled.
I've forgotten the way you looked at me.
It's better this way.
It's exhausting;
knowing you still exist, figuring out if I still do too.
You understood,
that's more than I can say for anyone else.
Most days break me.
I stand up most of the time
and remember how you taught me that's okay.

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.