Happy anniversary.

Can you believe
That it’s been a year?
I can still feel the first time,
Your hands danced on mine,
A soft presence, almost shy.
I could barely pay attention
To the film playing on television
Because there, right beside me,
A story was already unfolding,
One that was far more fascinating
Than any other mystery.

And it was.
Here we are, a year later,
The story continues to be
The most gruelling mystery
Of two people ceasing to be,
Of you & I never becoming we,
Instead, a strange, foreign word
To each other’s vocabulary.
I thought we both saw ourselves
In this picture perfect future:
Lying together on crumpled sheets,
Watching Sherlock on repeat,
Reading poetry and drinking coffee,
A state of being indescribably
Happy.

We were never meant to be that.
Only a manuscript tossed in the trash.
We loved too little, and bled too much,
Too proud to break the silence.
Too scared to end the sentence.
So let’s scrap the ending,
And go back to the beginning:

Happy anniversary.

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

and then I asked you,
"What's your biggest fear?"

you gave me a quivering sigh,
looked at me straight in the eyes
and said,

"It's that eventually, you will see me
the way I see myself."

Don't be sad
Life is just
Death's coping mechanism.
Maybe someday
He'll find another way
And we'll never get lost again.

Nothing would make me happier
than if I were purely selfless,
but then I'd be happiest
and I'd have only served myself.

I'll never understand
All of you, no
I'll never even
Understand some of you
I simply want
To understand
Enough of you
To be somewhat worth
Your beautiful time.

You can be likened to a kite
Bright, vibrant, fun
And you fly higher
The longer the string you are given
And I know
Even though I know nothing
That you would soar
With nothing tied to your ankle.

Even
The voice
Of the train
Sounds tired.

I
write
about
that
which
I
do
not
understand,
in
hopes
that
maybe­
I'll
come
close
to
understanding.