"oh yeah, and he likes to write."

that's all i had to hear.
and my mind was sent into a tumbling abyss,
a mess of words and sentences not quite put together.
and i can't help but wonder,
what ails him?
what causes him to put his pen to paper,
to write the unsaid words just resting on his lips.

i could imagine it would be flowery,
a sugar-coated image of the world,
because whatever he is seeing, it's beautiful.
and i want in, i want to see what he sees, feel what he feels.

but i can't.
he likes science because
it explains the complexities of the earth,
it showcases its beauty.
and i can't see that beauty
in anything but him
and those eyes that are seeing otherwise.

and oh,
how i long to read those words scratched out in ink

his eyes are something different that i can't explain
they're a colour that i can't describe
and i want to be soaked in that colour, to glow in it
because i can't spell it out, i just want to feel it

and there have been many times now
that he's looked at me and i've thought
"why the hell have i not said something?"
but then backed away. i can't do it.

i could've done something
i had the chance and then i blew it
we were in the same room, it was only just the two of us

you were slinging jokes back and forth
and laughing way too loudly
because people were asleep upstairs, i didn't want to wake them up

but there would be these silences,
these little moments of nothingness
but not nothingness, more like multitudes of future possibility
that even i couldn't get a grip of.

and eventually,
as i stood there in front of you, inches away.
i thought about every one of those possibilities
and i panicked.



and now i'm left with the repercussions of my own actions.
i'm stuck wondering what would've happened, if i had just
leaned in and kissed you. or told you. or something
that a rational person would do

but i should've done something.
i had the chance, i should've blown it.
we were in the same room, it was only just the two of us.

but i remember when i woke up beside you
and i couldn't help thinking
it was 95 degrees
but i didn't want to move the blanket
because you were underneath it
and i didn't want to wake you up

i feel that now is time
in which i choose whether to be stagnant or not
and if i stay the same
i will for a very long time

why do i feel as if i am being torn in two
between something very familiar
and something entirely new to me

but why do i like you.
why do i give a ****.
i shouldn't give two *****, and yet here i am.
to know that i'll be seeing you tomorrow drives me crazy,
but knowing that i'll never see you again in a year drives me insane.

you remind me of so much dumb ****.
it's sappy **** and i don't like it.
my poems are literally vents there's no art here.

and i'm sorry for being such a ******* disappointment.
i guess i'm glad we were a little close last year.
**** i **** *** but you **** more.