It's becoming harder then ever
to keep track
because
not even deja vu
will bring you back.

There is a 93 year-old man. He has been driving for years
trying to unlock his lover's jaw
it is stuck tight with the thoughts which have become lost somewhere
near the back of her head.

He thinks about the mist in her eyes, how once they were islands.
She was a child surrounded by the sea. He was a soldier.
Sat next to two bombs they both went off,
when he met her
he told everyone he was the luckiest man alive. They were stranded together.

Now he drives around the Hebrides. Thinks about the summer
when the ferries stopped, they ate nothing but salted fish.
He is desperate for her to remember. Somedays she does.
The winter he met her father her family
had never seen an Englishman before. It was so bleak.
She only used to wear shoes when the snow fell like an apology,
now her feet are so lost they barely carry her
from bedroom, to bathroom, to window.
She looks out over walled gardens, everything she once had was an open space.

She tells me about the day he came home from the army.
Threw his pistol in the bin
like he could ever throw the war away
I think of the irony: a man trying to throw the pieces of his life away
that he could never forget. Now all he can do is look
through flesh and heartbreak
and too many stories to tell.
All the addresses in his book, like they're not just bricks and bones
and nursery rhymes
like it's all falling down now
through curtains
and IED's breaking through bodies over screens.
Like a train crash.
Like a house fire changing everything you know
holding it to your chest like it's more than ash.
More than this.
Looking out on a bank holiday wondering what goes on
behind all those closed doors
counting all the things you miss.

I would give up sleep for you.
I would live my life five hours behind.
I would spend my inheritance money.
I would leave like breaking in the morning
just slip out through the door.
I would swim the ocean, loose my body to the current
like a broken bottle frayed and battered until I was all green frosting and smoothed edges
and opaque.
I would wash up on your shore.

I would drive for miles. I would purpose build.
I would tear up the books, rewrite them with your name
over and over, out though the skies,
climb up through the atmosphere
paint the moon with your face.
Loose myself to gravity. Just give me something to blame.
Give me water. Give me tidal waves. Give me ocean hearts,
your storm-wall, ocean heart, breaking-wave kisses
wear me down gently.
Tell me your life story. Write me into it.

Remind me when I forget who I am,
even, when you have nothing else to give.
Take me home.
Tell me something true.
Pin me on your chest like a buttonhole,
wear me to your wedding.
Show me off
like I was ever something to be admired.

listen to me, you are going to be loved.
more importantly, you are going to love.

you’re scared because you’re older now
and you’re still all alone,
but i promise you,
you will be loved harder than most.
because you waited
and because you are made entirely of longing.

you’re not going to get the practice,
the dry runs that everyone else gets,
you’re going to get thrown into it
like a wave crashing on you
and you won’t know up from down.

you are going to be so lucky.
you are going to fumble through all of it at first,
you’re going to throw yourself out of every window imaginable
before you find your feet and your head.

you are controlled by your heart and that is okay.
you are lonely and you’ve been waiting so, so, so long.
but it’s coming
and you aren’t going to be ready for it;
people like us are never going to be ready for it
but that is why we will be okay,
because our mistakes will feel like the end of the world
and there is nothing better than feeling the ground crumble beneath you
and there is nothing better than finding out there is a surface underneath it.

you are going to love hard and probably too much
and you will be loved back so fiercely
you will want to crawl out of your own skin and float away,
but you won’t
you will stay
and you will learn to accept it.
you are going to be happy
and you are going to be scared shitless.
you are going to change.
that’s what i think love is,
when you can’t remember who you were before
and who you are after it
but it’s all okay (k.w)

He fell in love like the changing of seasons. With new leaves and new snows and new beginnings and new growths.

There was fall-
With her simple thoughts and opinions
And her kind words to everyone
Not to mention her ability to learn quickly
(He was an unanswered problem on a math quiz)

There was winter-
Coincidentally, she was winter, with a heart like hers.
She was a challenge and not even he could conquer
Challenging herself to play every instrument there was
(Including his heart strings)

There was spring-
Who was the hopeless romantic
Wide and starry eyed
She always had a smile on her face and her laugh traveled
(He was the only one who knew how secretly sad she was)

There was summer-
Because he believed seasons changed
But people are not poems and this is just a metaphor
She was as cold as winter and a season between could not change that
(Summer love always comes to an end, Spring thinks hopefully)

So here I am, Spring, writing about a boy who thinks he can change girls like seasons. He wants to change them for the better. Yet, he leaves them worse. And I, Spring, was already sad enough before he came.

tear stains on my pillow,
yet your pillow is bare.
people change,
as did we.
first loves are the worst.
our burning desire for one another,
lead to an addiction.
consider this our rehab;
you're still in my heart,
but i am
f r e e .
-l.c.g.

soft blonde hair,
rosy pink lips.
calm family girl,
but what is this?
little blondie's exploring,
she gets home at 4 AM.
once an honor student,
now an average joe.
once an angel,
now a party animal.
little blondie's hooking up,
having fun.
little blondie's not little anymore,
she's grown up.