I opened the blinds.
I took a deep breath.
I reminded myself that I exist.
I let you go.

It was a routine morning.

Some say 3 hours isn’t enough sleep to get by,
but I’m more concerned about getting by
with less hours of you.
I didn’t open my umbrella today,
it has too many broken pieces anyways.
The rain felt cold,
but still gentle.
Always gentle.
You’re always gentle.
I couldn’t use my travel cup today,
I didn’t have enough time to clean it.
Maybe some mornings are supposed
to be spent without something to wake me up.
Maybe I’ll drink honesty in the largest mug
I can find.
One sugar,
not two,
a little bit of milk.
Maybe I’ll carry love around in buckets
until the handles cut through my palms
and leave reminders of why you are worth it.
You can clean them if you’d like,
it will burn but that’s okay.
Just know that you’re worth it.
You are worth it.

Every piece I find
draws me deeper into you,
and my shaking hands refuse
to know exactly what to do.

The tides are like your eyes,
always moving but never leaving,
and my head’s below the surface
but somehow I still keep breathing.

Some nights these thoughts
are all I have.
Some nights they are thoughts
I hope you have yourself.
Like early mornings with oversized sweaters
and coffee a bit too warm,
with a slight fog
and gentle rain outside.
Like mid evening spent on a soft grassy hill
with a calming breeze
and wispy clouds.
Like battling 4 am as it tries
to sink our drooping eyelids,
holding on only by
anchoring our eyes to one another.
Some nights they are words.
Some nights they are what keeps me company
when I drift into six hours
of softened slumber.
Some nights they are hopes.
Other nights they are needs.
Every night they are about you.

You are not like the sea.
It will never be deep enough,
nor calm enough,
nor lovely enough
to ever hold your substance.
You have engulfed all of it;
every salty drop now sits in lungs
that hold the air I need to survive.
And I will dive as deep as I must
to find the caverns that keep it.
Tides cascade through brimming veins
and currents surge through swelling limbs.
One deep breath is all it takes
to force the sea into your eyes.
And you will hold it there forever;
the tranquil green pools
like puddles forming from
the deepest ocean floors.
You are not like the sea.
You will never be like the sea.
The sea is like you.

I found you.
Amidst distant humming grasshoppers
and humid evening air,
I found you.
Or maybe you found me.
Maybe you’re finding me.
2 am came early last night;
our words far too honest,
our eyes far too tired.
Maybe our bones too.
Ignoring time’s mandates you
ripped my heart straight from my chest
with bare hands
(living)
(pulsing)
(messy)
and laid it on the table next to yours.
I’m still not sure how to put it back,
so I’ll carry it around with both hands
until you’re there to examine it again.
And I’ll spend all the time apart wondering
why it feels better
outside of my ribcage.

People write poetry about girls like you
Sickly sweet
With candy lips
And sugary giggles
Pastel coloured claws
And caramel highlights
Mile high heels
And cold white gold hearts
Dead eyes beneath full lashes
And an endless list of boys
Still clinging onto your little finger
Where they'd been wrapped so comfortably 
For far too long

I woke up with a headache this morning,
I think I drank too much of you last night;
even if most of it was in silence.
But silence is what you make it,
and there’s no need for words
when I can hear your heart beating
from across the table
and your pupils are larger than the lids of
the two unfinished coffees that sit in my car.
I desperately search for something to grasp,
so I must avoid your eyes
because they’re far too much to handle.
So I find the freckle just above
the end of your right eyebrow,
and the extra hole in your ear
that you did not fill with jewelry tonight.
I pretend that every day I will see you,
and today you are the deep blue sky
filled with wispy clouds;
an ocean of reminders that
there’s so much more to find
inside of you.

My third grade teacher called me a word miser,
I suppose not much has changed.
Maybe I’ve just become selective,
or maybe you force words to
stay lodged inside my throat.
But maybe words really don’t say that much.
Because I see more letters in those
forest eyes than all the books I’ve buried myself in,
and your lips could write pages with
all the softness that they hold.
So we live in emptiness together
like we never want to leave.
They will have to drag us out,
if they can find us first.
I know you won’t ever let them find us,
because you grasp time within your fingers
and hold stillness in your bones.
It’s okay if you’re scared.
I’m sure it’s for the same reason I am,
and for the same reason you
place a napkin on your lap when you eat:
you don’t trust yourself.
But that’s okay,
you only need to trust me.

Sometimes I take the long way home.
I hope you don’t mind.
It’s just in hopes of spending a few more
minutes with you.
And I take every chance to switch
into the right lane, just to steal
a few extra glances when you’re not looking.
I hope you don’t mind.
I’ve cracked open my ribcage and laid
every piece of what’s left on the table,
even if it’s not much.
I don’t need you to put me back together,
I just need you to be okay with
broken pieces,
fragmented statements,
incoherent whispers.
We don’t need to be fixed.
We just need to grow.
And how can we grow if there are not
cracks in our minds and gaping holes
in our hearts?
I think your pieces are beautiful.
I would like to hold on to them for a while.
I hope you don’t mind.