how does one love a poet?
between the lines of their spoken words
and their haiku's.
a jumbled nonsense to an untrained ear
but a masterpiece
to the ones who take your poems
the ones they've studied
and they dissected
because they find them*  almost
as beautiful
as the way your soul shines
when you coin a poem
about the one who
coins their poems
about you.

*the delicate intertwining process of loving a poet.

i am aggressive.
aggressively happy, aggressively sad.

i will be the sun that crashes through
your window and warms your living room with my laughter, i will melt your candles and burn your eyes with my smile. i will furnish your home with my voice and hang memories of us on the walls of your heart. i will scorch you by surprise like a seat belt in july, i will scald your cupid's bow with my cherry lips and you will never get my taste out of your mouth. i will set your house on fire.

but on the hard days, i will not.

i will drain the color from your life. my tears will wash the pigment from the walls and pull the curtains shut. you won't remember what sunshine feels like. my shivering shoulders will **** the warmth out of our shared home, establishing a winter not with crystalline ice but with a bone-chilling cold whose frost bites at anything exposed - your heart, your fingers, your nose - don't let me get too close.

i will be your sunshine, and then i will leave you out in the rain.
i wish i could be a calm, pleasant day, but i can only be fire, i can only be ice.
i'm sorry, but i've never known gray - i've never done anything halfway.