This is not a poem, this is a life.
I have fallen in love, and I know you've fallen in love (at least I hope you've fallen in love). But, our love was antithetic, it was electric, it was eccentric, it was modern. It was like moonbeams, it was like the pavement after rain. Our love was timeless, but most importantly, it was faceless. It was without impression, it was without imperfection.
I just wanted to remind you, that this is not a poem, this is a life.
I met you, and you met me, but it wasn't face to face. We never walked down the hallways of our high schools and brushed the backs of our hands together. Never would I be able to compare the glint in your eyes to the way the sun shined in our favorite spot last Wednesday at 4:32p.m. We never sat on your back porch, or leaned precariously over my balcony, and nervously leaned into one another. Never will you understand the trembling of my knees when I first heard your voice (this is all becoming very poetic), and never will I know the unabashed heat of your skin; or the cold of your dangerous glare. I'll never meet your mother, and you'll never meet my father (but that's okay, because we wouldn't want that anyways), they are our secrets locked away in a box underneath our separate and never merging beds. I crave nothing more than a love that cracks open my ribs and sends a  hurricane barreling through my heart. Few have tried, yet none (only you) have succeeded. The failed have only summoned a cold winter within these bones, but you struck up a blistering summer and an incomprehensible spring, where my eyes viewed nothing but random march showers.
Sorry, I forgot that you were not a poem, and this is our life.
Only upon assessing the damage your vessel created with your departure did I realize that this is not a poem, this is a life.

(a.m.) 03/12/14

I want to be your today.
I want to be your tomorrow.
I want to be your everyday, every which way.
I want to be your twenty-fifth birthday, spent alone with a bottle of bourbon.
I want to be the breath between your words.
The long flight back home.
The first holiday spent abroad.
I want to be the steaming cloud of breath, on a cold January, three years from the next.
I want to be the sheets at night; the flipside of your pillow.
The favorite restaurant.
The hole in your pocket.
The knot in your shoelace.
The freckle on your nose.
I want to know the story of your first broken bone
(If there was one).
I want to know the religious awakening.
I want to know the cherished childhood memory.
The playground bullies.
The third grade science project gone terribly wrong.
Tell me about how he broke your heart.
Tell me about how she broke your heart.
Tell me how to make it better.
Give me the insoluble remedy; give me the chance.
I want to be your unanswered question.
I want to be the first thing when you wake.
I want to be the last thing when you rest.
I want to know your deepest secret.
Tell me about how it molded who you are today.
Give me the light- give me you.

You exist between the books on my shelves.
You exist in each stroke of my pen.
You exist where my punctuation doesnt
(See, you were right there).
You exist in the unsung melody.
The bruise on my hip.
That trigonometry homework left unfinished.
Those lyrics not remembered.
I think of you in the morning.
In the morning with disheveled hair, and bleary eyes.
I think of you with the click of a pen, the turning of the page.
With the brakes of the city bus.
With the bell after fifth period.
With those fading scars on my side.
You are my first encounter with the salty waves of the coast.
You are my first encounter of a well-rehearsed routine.
You are the roots of my hair.
You are the cherished memory.
You are the only one.
You are beautiful.
You are genuine.
You are brave.
You are you.
And, you make me me.

(a.m) 04/21/14