I've decided to fall in love with words instead of people.

Along with my coffee my lover goes cold sitting in the chill of the September wind. His eyes scream bitter words to me. No longer is he the kind heart that I love. The warmness of his presence was gone with the summer sun.
I long for him not as an infant longs for her mother's touch, but as an addict longs for her drug.
He once made me burn the light of a fire on Christmas morning.
Now, I'm rotting in the fireplace.

**** you.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

You flashed a smile and I felt a novel unraveling. I began to trace the words written in the way you carry yourself, so reserved. Each breath a sentence. Every move a paragraph spelling out the dance of our bodies so perfectly in sync. I flip through the pages of your essence and become mortified by how easily I'm lost in you. You've taken me in with every chapter as you unlock yet another story. An entire series, and I'll never be able to finish you.

I'll spend an eternity engulfed in your story, finding every misspelling and wrinkled page, and kissing your words until my lips are stained black.