I trace the curve of your spine
And write my secrets on your bones

We're surrounded by others
But your eyes say we're all alone

Is it that I'm myself with you,
Or that you're yourself with me?
Maybe it's the feeling of togetherness,
the power of we.

I don't know of it was that **** smirk
Your scent,
Your clothes
Or your jokes
All I know is you turned me inside out
My usual thought-out replies
Replaced with a measly choke

There's really no thesis to this,
No ******, no conclusion

Everything I just described so vividly
Is merely a self-made illusion

I haven't met you yet - the one that'll make flowers blossom in the corners of my mind

Who I'll crave and adore
And with whom I will spend my time

I'm not waiting for you, I have no time to seek

You're somewhere living your own life.
Each minute,
Hour,
Week.

The memories you're making now I will hear about in years to come

Along with your whispers in my ear: "This is it... you're the one."

Maybe you think you're in love now, with him or she

But the universe will make it happen

The one you love... it'll be me.

.

I identify as the black ink that fills your pen, as dark and wondrous as the secrets held behind your pupils

I identify as the raised skin that marks a scar, holds a memory, and refuses to go away

I identify as the rain on your window that silences your thoughts to sleep

I identify as everything you want your lover to be

The only thing
I don't identify as

Is me

You're the arc of my spine that aligns with the moon,
my smile that beams as bright as the sun.
You're my freckles like stars in the night sky
and the sea of black that is a backdrop to it all.

The ****** thing about art is that your hand can't write, draw or paint as fast as your mind can create.
The shutter of your camera cant move as fast as life does.
The ****** thing about art is that converting a product of your mind to matter is the most impossible of tasks.
Yet, your passion is to do exactly that.