It's never quite as romantic as they make it out to be.
These trips to France
or Spain
or Germany.
To the misty mountains of Iceland,
the wine-toasting grottos of Italy.

The romance comes about a half-hour before sun rise.
Catching, counting
and losing count
of the stars you see in her eyes.
In those sincere sighs
that come after the heartfelt goodbyes
and the soft smiles in those happy hellos:
Those are the ones
that let you know.

Romance is not a place:
It's a person.
And when you find them,
hold them close
and never let go.
Or you'll be destined to dwell on the past
and to dream only of tomorrow.
With a head full of regret
and a heart full of sorrow.

Don't let it happen to you
like it happened to me.
Hold her close, for heaven's sake:
Or lost
you will forever be.

Hanging from the ceiling,
waiting for the next sweet hit.
Baby, I love that feeling.
Give me all of it.

Don't hold back, darling.
Hit me where it hurts.
Let it all out on me
and hit me like you mean it.
Hit me
like I'm your first.
I don't deserve anyone's best:
So give me only your worst.
Be my prizefighting poet,
throwing only punches
without speaking any words.

And love,
please,
take off that glove.
I want to feel you,
and only you:
And I want you
to feel me, too.

Don't stop.
Even if it kills me.
Not like I planned to live that long;
hit me and
keep on hitting.
It's the only thing
that thrills me.
Is that really so wrong?

And when you're tired,
weak,
worn,
and all done in:
Close the door and leave me here;
and go and gently
snuggle up to him.
And you know
I'll be here when you need me,
just like I've always been.

Tossed into the muddy reservoir of bad choices.
You are the words coming back to haunt me.
You are those voices.
I am all the times you thought you knew better;
I am the constant reminders.
I am the torn up love-letter.

The unread magazines that hide your drawings.
The bitter, black coffee
that picks me up in the mornings.
The way the sun comes out earlier this time of year;
And how the rain comes and hides, and obscures
the tears.
The hello's and goodbye's,
forced
and insincere.
And the voice that whispers:
"It's alright,
have no fear."
And the other voice that whispers other things
I'd rather not hear.

I am all the decisions you wish you hadn't made.
You are every note,
out of tune
or misplayed.
You are the soundless symphony;
the forgotten serenade.

You are the one I haven't met yet.
The rising of the moon
and the falling of the sun set.

I am the poems never read,
and the songs never sang.
I am door never opened;
the telephone that never rang.

We were the story never told,
and the feelings never shared.
The ones that didn't live to ever grow old.
The empty box, written with the words
"Handle with care."