Id like to think I am a love poet. Truth is I wrote about love because when we sat together and had a picnic under a tree with the setting sun and the stars and moon as our chaperone it's the closest thing to God That I've ever even dreamt of.. I like to think I am a love poet. With tales of escapades and love that dance across our lips. because if there is one thing this world still needs its a little more love and I want to pull you close and hold your hands and share secrets that we always thought would follow us to our graves! To write a never ending story with today always being yesterday's page. To jump chapters ahead even if we aren't ready because why not lived like you've never lived before. To paint murals of tears and smiles and that night when you finally admitted to yourself that hey, maybe love is worth the risk. And maybe on that day you and I can tell each other about that one time in high school where you did something stupid and crazy but you will never regret it because it was about more than that moment. It was about throwing off chains. About finding that moment where a kiss is all it takes to be content. I'd like to think I'm a love poet, not because of flower words or trying to capture your affection. I'd like to think I'm a love poet because I prefer it to the alternative. I am a love poet because, the only Thing I've ever felt good at, is loving you.

You, you sweet soul who broke things off. I remember the day you to told me that you loved me. Ferocious feelings that broke from your lips in a stampede. Where did that wild cat go. Once upon a time felt so right with us, happenstance what the only reason we met. Sweet soul, what changed to turn my name on your lips into a curse, so suddenly your feelings changed, you must not have loved even yet. I suppose I was a pick me up, a sweet place to rest your head when stress was too much. I called you my queen and you said I was your castle. Hindsight is 20 20 and I realize now that should have been my first clue. I wasn't your love or your sweet salvation, I was walls, bricks, and mortar, a place to hide from the storm. I was your bedcovers on a cold evening when you're all alone. I was your pillow for you to lay your head. I thought I was comfort food for your soul, but it turns out I was just a bandaid. Sweet soul, what happened to happily ever after?

When I was little; I found a silver pin inside a fallen crows nest. My mother told me that it was there because crows adore shiney things. That fall morning when I rode the bus to school I saw at least 30 crows bickering atop the wall. But then they spotted you. As you waltzed out of the door they snapped to attention and stared as you stepped.

You see crows like shiney things. They recognized what I did not and that was; You are a supernova. Your blinding incandescence was incomparable and i missed it. I did not realise until it was three years later and you sat next to me eating your lunch and working on your poems. The way your words flew across the page like the way the ocean ebbs and flows was more than one man with two hands could handle.

You made me realise how to let go of my words. How my syllabic soldiers could not succeed unless they were given freedom. Thank you. I'll remember you.

One, You transform my dreary gray rain clouds into sun scented perfume. So intoxicating it makes my knees tremble. So sweet you could ****.

Two, The idea of you is my alarm clock, at dawn my eyes snap open each morning, I am petrified to miss a single moment, I want to see your face.

Three, Your laughter is a babbling brook I am fortunate enough to swim through each time I tell a joke. The water is perfect.

Four, The stars prefer your eyes to their celestial abode, I know this because ever since you came around the sky cannot quite compare anymore.

Five, You make me unsure of my words. Sounds I thought could compare to symphonies get caught in the butterfly net of my throat.

Six, There was no Shakespeare until you smiled. No genre defining works, no Romeo and Juliet, No love so true as what our smiles share.

Seven, I pay attention in physics if the question were when you play with your hair how many times does my heart skip a beat. The answer is how many times my heart skips a beat.

Seven, I can't count so well with you around. You see numbers don't feel sufficient next to the abstract art within your eyes..

Eight, I'll fix that later. I don't to abandon this moment here with you.

Nine, They say love is blind but I don't care if I see clearly. You were a sight so bright I should be blind.

Ten, You stretch the silence so thin that my syllables may finally stand next to soliloquies.

Eleven, Nine soft syllables, You are my muse. I think I love you.

I think i might hate you or at least I hate the way you cause my legs to give out with just a glance. And I fear a smile because my heart may just end up stopping; I think rather that I may dislike you. I mean nothing feels as joyful as the moment I felt your hand against mine ever since the color of your hair made all the others feel a little dull. Ever since the way those locks that frame your cheekbones made art worthless. This is a letter to your eyes, requesting, they linger a moment longer. This is a letter to your voice asking for it to grant me just a few more chills.

This is a letter to you. Requesting that you come a little closer. Requesting, that you'll be. Mine...