Every poem I write is of you.

I write of your chiseled jaw and cheeks.

I write of your collarbones, from whose depth I could drink wine.

I write of the bed of stars you laid me down upon.

I write of your golden skin under the soft white sunlight.

I write of your eyes which remind me of the moon.

I write of your spine which resembles the solar system.

I write of my love and of my man, whose entire soul resembles the composition of the universe.

And I can only hope I am a galaxy within it..

(i. r)

I do not like this phase of a heart break.

When you purposely avoid love songs,
Or sometimes you play them just to make yourself feel like your hearts still pounding.

When the person you loved and hid from every waking soul is brought into a conversation.
Or when he isn't.

When you see other lovers who have made it years without the cruel hand of fate ripping their love from them.
Or when you see they haven't.

When you notice him writing you smaller, casual messages when they use to be breathtaking and beautiful.
Or when he doesn't write at all.

When I ask you if I am pushing you away and you say no.

"Alright, happy birthday! Text me later tonight?"

"Will do"

When every hidden goodbye ends with those two words. And my broken, belittled heart.

(i. r.)

I would walk to the end of the world
Swim across the deepest ocean
To see you tonight
My heart longs
And my eyes thirst
But to live without you
I'm cursed

i  envy your pillow
it lets you
rest your head on it
while i can't

i envy your cup,
it kisses your lips
tasting yours,
while i just stare at it,

i envy your blanket
it covers your skin
it touches every bit of you
while i can't

i envy your clothes
it touches your skin
every corner of it
every flaw
while i'm sitting here
typing this

I wrote you a poem,
But I dropped it amongst the stars.
It wound up on the ceiling
While we were chasing cars.

I wrote you a poem,
But it dissolved into the ocean.
A fisherman caught it
While his net was in motion.

I wrote you a poem,
But it's on the other side of the world,
In another man's hands,
His fingers distorted and curled.

I wrote you a poem,
But you haven't read it yet.
Someday you will,
For now it hides in your silhouette.

This house is cold.
The wooden floors have lost
the patter of tiny feet flopping
against them at seven in the morning.
For those feet have grown old,
and moved on.

This house is broken.
The fireplace coughs up dusty
memories of chilly nights,
and holidays passed.
Something once so inviting
has lost it's tender charm.

This house is alone.
The walls whisper
sweet nothings into the air.  
Only to be carried away
by the echoes of the wind
throughout the uninhabited hallways.

This house is a canvas.
A chance to start fresh.
A second chance.
A new beginning.
A work in progress.

This house will become our home.

I want to tell you everything,
but lately I haven't been able to find the right words.
Upside-down vowels adhere to fractured consonants;
mismatched words snap into twisted phrases and unkind sentences.  
Hesitation has been holding my wrists and drowning me
in rivers of regret and  loneliness.
Waves of sorrow crippling my psyche with every drip
of the faucet.
What once was a controlled trickle
Is now a raging flood.
Oxygen isn't common
In the box labeled reality.
"Take a hatchet to the walls,
and step into the sunlight!"
Curious knights ride upon steeds of
broken glass and rose petals,
with hopes to sew heartache back onto her
tattered sleeve,
all of whom are poisoned by greed and
red-hot lust.
They don't know about the bridges
that've been incinerated inside her soul.
We all need that person who will kiss our scars,
and read us seasick fairy tales of love and triumph.
When we find this victor of such an immortal task
We'll dive into the ocean of eternity,
and hope for the best.