I have found a million ways to say "come back"
but none of them seem to bring you back home.

I'll be the ink
you'll be the poetry
I'll write the words
with every ounce of honesty
you'll be the rhythm and rhyme
the ones I'll perfect
one at a time
I'll bring the paper
you bring the pen
if we mess up
we'll start over again
I'll be the ink
you'll be the poetry
we'll bring the life
into this story

We were a puzzle
waiting to be put
alongside each other
waiting for the chance
to fit in somewhere
with someone
somehow

Finding you was like
like watching the sunrise
after a lifetime of darkness
so beautiful, it hurt
Having you was like
taking a breath
after being underwater for years
so refreshing, it hurt
Loving you was like
getting a taste of spring
after your body had
been in winter so long
frostbite had become a state of being
so wonderful, it hurt
Trying to forget you was like
trying to remember
the details of a dream
so melancholic, it hurt
Writing about you is like
trying to describe pain
using words never invented
like trying to leave a drug
once you've gotten hooked
like trying to forget the words
to your favorite songs
because they carry memories
so complicated, it hurts

Words aren't bandaids
for wounds of the heart
and promises aren't plane rides
against the distance that keeps us apart
Your absence is the loudest sound
I keep its' echoes for when you're not around

You can only send
so many postcards
before words like "love"
become a language so dead
your own tongue has forgotten how to speak it
You can only mend
a heart so many times
before "irreparably damaged"
becomes a definition on its' label
before you start to pretend
that the space between them and you
isn't tearing the two
apart

how can it be
with so many around
I still want you here with me

You cannot build a body
solely from pretty words