Sometimes the truth
is like holding
a smoldering flame
in your cupped hands

where if you do not
throw the flame
then it will burn
you alive.

you said, "you're not afraid to love
you love kittens, you love rainy weather,
you love shakespeare and sweaters
movies and being kissed
on the tip of your nose
new york city, you love beaches
and the few times it snows
you love crime tv, you love poetry
so why is it that when it comes to me
you feel hesitant?"

i said, "i will tell you, the reason
that i am guarded
yes, i love all of the things
that you listed.
but shakespeare never wrote me a sonnet
and then disappeared, leaving me stranded
new york city may drive me crazy
but it will always be here, you see
poetry may tear me apart
but it won't look me in the eyes as it does
do you have an answer, now, to your satisfaction?
please listen, believe me,
i do not fear rejection.
i fear giving up all of my secrets
only to find you've painted yours
on someone else's skin."

.






























"What have you been doing these days?"



"Trying to become myself."






























.

I remember every metaphor I used for you.
It’s beautiful how quickly I ran out.
It was just so difficult to describe
a forest at the bottom of an ocean on fire.
You were soft,
I was quiet.
I remember every park bench,
every broken sidewalk,
every open sky.
It was so whole.
I remember breathing,
and the lovely amount of effort it required.
I hope you do too.
They say writers remember the important things;
I say they are liars.
I remember you wore a purple flannel
the first time I saw you,
even though it isn’t your favorite colour.
I remember that you take your coffee black,
and your tea with plenty of honey.
I remember the way your eyes changed colour
based on the weather,
and the way you looked at the sky,
like it was endless.
You were endless.
I remember everything you taught me.

They say writers remember the important things;
I remember you.

Lovers are fools.
Words like "forever" and "always"
Dance across their lips
Hidden scribbles on notebook pages.
Lovers are fools.
Candles and rose petals
Cloud a room full
Of expectation and uncertainty.
Lovers are fools.
Blind, deaf, mute
And shrouded in moonbeams,
Unable to face the reality of the world.

Foolish lovers,
Open your eyes
For you will  f a l l  if you do not watch where you leap.
Foolish lovers,
How can you stop the time tables,
Step off the life-carousel -
Racing horses frozen in mid-air
And twinkle-light music driven to utter silence?
Foolish lovers,
Teach me how to use my fragile love
As an indestructible armor
Against the lightening bolts and ice storms,
Apocalypse and crop circle fears.

Lovers are fools.
She loves me all up,
So if being one with her means
Being a **fool…

I say,
                      *Bring it on.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I've written you a letter and I'll send it soon.
It's two pages, twice folded and slipped
into an off-white envelope
where I've licked the back flap
and pressed it down firmly.

Your location is scribbled on the front,
centered almost perfectly
and my address sits top left
just in case your house is no longer there
and the postman decides to return to sender.

However, the corners are beginning to fray
and a small coffee stain
curves around one side,
looping over the place
where a stamp should be.

Your name is starting to fade
and I'm not sure if the 6 in your address
is a 6 at all. So maybe the postman
will just lose it in a sea of forgotten paper
and one day you’ll swim over to it.

I would like you to read the letter I've written,
but the idea behind a message in a bottle
only works if you toss the **** thing overboard.
And the only time I ever told you I loved you
is collecting dust inside my desk.

there are times
i am supposed to be happy
like when i am with my friends,
throwing my head back and covering my mouth
as i shake with laughter
at a joke someone jut made.

but then day turns to night
and my carefree grin turns into an unexplainable sadness,
etched on my face like a tattoo.
and i lay in bed,
thinking about all the things i wish i could say,
and all the things i'm afraid to admit.

it's nights like these when i realize,
i am many things.
i am happy and sad,
outgoing and shy,
crazy and quiet.

but mostly,
i am just empty.