So many words I wish to say to you,
But I could never find the right words.
So many things I wish to show you,
But you're not here for me to show.
I just wish to hear your voice one last time before you go.
The way your voice sounds when you tell me you love me,
The way you sound when you laugh.
The way your voice fills with excitement when you talk about things you're passionate about.
All these things, is what made me fall for you.
But now I'm falling apart because of you.
I know you never meant to hurt me,
Like I never meant to hurt you.
But both of us knew, it was too good to be true.
It was too perfect, to last.
But I want you to know, it was only perfect because you were a part of it.
I only wish I had more time with you..
More time to show my love to you.
More time to tell you all the things I never got to tell you.
Like how hopelessly in love I am with you,
And how you're my forever,
And how I daydream about holding your hand and kissing your lips for the very first time.
And how when we fall asleep together on the phone, I stay awake just a couple more minutes after, just so I can hear the sound of you breathe.
Just hearing and knowing, that you, you're there with me..
Made me feel less alone.
But now I'll be falling asleep alone again,
Without the sound of your voice being the last thing I hear.
God, I never meant to hurt you..
I never wanted to lose you.
But you deserve better,
Better than I could have ever given you.
I love you..
I will love you always.

they said there was a girl they knew
with a cigarette between her smile
and flowers between her hair

and i knew, i didn't have to even think—
it was me.

When the Sunday sun sets
and you get rid of the alcohol breath,
you look for comfort in our bed,
but find a gnawing disturbance instead.

You discover heat in a frigid room.
Don't you realize it's coming from you?
Your chest is consumed with pain,
you perspective starts to change.
The smell of your pillow is not the same.

The air is thick and your breathing's thicker,
you can feel it getting colder as you're getting sicker.
Your mind is a mess and so is the sky,
the drugs don't work and you don't know why.
Guess there's no more consolation in getting high.
Your sight goes weak and your mouth goes dry,
you have no more reasons or alibis.

And when you know you've once felt bliss,
and know that you couldn't predict the twist,
and in the taste of your last hit,
you feel the content you desperately missed.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

When we have our late night talks
We seem to forget what's written on the clocks
We get consumed with the stories that we say
And we anticipate another talk later on some other day
At the peak of night when everyone is in a slumber
We pretend our problems seized to exist like an imaginary number
We talk about life and the lack of genuine souls
And how we live with people that are monsters and trolls
So life moves forward as we shift our gear
But never forget the late night talks we had our freshman year

Find yourself
against again
all odds, with
the prettiest
******, in
this whole
region.

Gently caresses,
she does,
your genitals
says the
wittiest
repartee.

Come, calm
down, old
man it's
just your
imagination,
wake up to
that headache.

colour and crashes
big eyes and lashes
this is you in mourning.

white latex gloves
white flying doves
this is you today.

careful breathes
careless lefts
this is you without.

bright flowy skirt
a smile that can flirt
this is you with him.

big perfect grin
crying over him
this is you at your finest.

smoke in the air
thick curly hair
this is you and me.

You're a constant reminder that poetry can't fix everything.