we are
a highway kiss
away from madness —
tonight, you burn
what's left of my breaths
and i stay and sit
and hold the matches
to this roadside fire
in total awe, darling

like an angel after his fall.

some things, too raw to die for heresy —
some things, too raw to be an anomaly.

Our lips met
in a cosmic collision,
like the sun and the moon
in an eclipse;
we sensually nibbled,
and ******,
and licked,
and tongued,
and got a taste
of each other's sadness.
I could almost swear
kissing you felt like
drowning and yet,
never wanting
to come up for air.
Our hands were frantic,
like ballerinas
made to dance
under the tune
of insane rock music;
we fumbled
on each other's
zips and buttons,
'til they were
ripped
along with our clothes
and the masks
we wore.
Our skins grazed
in sweat and despair,
like the earth
good-morning-kissed
by the sun
after an entire night
of raining;
we caressed
and clawed on backs;
I was pretty sure
I had glimpse
of your soul,
and you probably
saw a void
where mine should be,
but we let our demons
dance 'til two,
like figure skaters
gliding gracefully
over thin ice
during a winter night.

And I thought it was love.
God, I almost called it love,
I even wished it was.

But darling, it was the bottles on the floor. Probably *****.

wait for me
on the concert grounds
of the bands we don’t even listen to;
wait for me
‘til you find yourself
singing to the second verse
of a rock song
you hear for the first time —
that one is gonna be our song, darling.

wait for me
in old malls and museums
people no longer come to;
wait for me on the forgotten stairs
'til you see my ragged old skool
and my bad, orange hair
parting the crowd
to give you my bear hugs.

wait for me
in coffee shops that play
my favorite songs;
wait for me with that
black coffee in hand
'til i arrive an hour later
to appease you with
kisses that smell like subways
cause they’re what
i give best.

wait for me
in busy, city streets
valleyed by nameless
skyscrapers;
wait for me in strangers’ cars
at 5 am 'til a sunray
hits my face a meter across
from where you are.

wait for me
by the shore,
where promises are lost
in the sea spray;
where the starless skies
can watch me drown
in the scent of your hair
when the sea is right before us.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer have to say
our i love you’s
through calls and texts
but in front of each other.
wait for me until
you no longer find
an “i have to go” note at three am
but my arms,
wrapped around your body
and my lips
planted on your neck.

wait for me, darling —
wait for me until
we no longer miss each other
more often than not,
and until the only waiting
we’ll do
is you, waiting for me
to get off work,
and me, waiting for you
to wake up.

wait for me until the moment
you find me
there,
next to you;
wait for me until
your home becomes my home,
and until all we’ll have
to wait for
are delayed flights
and underrated movies to start
and dishes served late
and our hand, finding each other
instantly after seconds
of being away.

wait for me darling —
wait for me until i’m there
forever,

and until we no longer
have to wait.

I want all kinds of love with you. The kind that leaves a holy mark on distant, ivory skin. The kind where daylight blurs your edges into something soft. The kind where a kiss is a chaos of storms. The kind with orange butterflies — the kind where they're consumed by flames. The kind that hurts and leaves you writhing — fragile, broken, and covered in wounds. The kind that screams under the rain. The kind that yields, like sunlight in February's palms. The kind that poets do not know about. The kind that leaves and finds it way back — the kind that always does. The kind that never leaves at all. The kind that's an almost. The kind that I'll pay for with my bones. The kind that haunts you after the years. The kind that holds on. The kind in wrinkles. The kind that lasts. The kind that stays. ❤

I want all kinds of love with you.

tw

i. october
i am a house burning down
and if i cannot make it out of this body,
at least, let me knit lilacs on my skin
where my wounds are in their softest —
where they hurt the most.

it is easy to look at a girl
and call her trembling poetry.
it is easy to look at a girl
and not see an arsonist.
it is easy to read a poem
and not see the disconnect.

ii. november
i am a boneyard of butterflies —
and these roads know too well the way
a grass blade wounds my feet.

i remember their faint way of hurting —
oh how it had dwindled into normalcy.
and yet maybe when you play numb long enough,
everything slowly does.

iii. december
i remember reading epitaphs as a kid;
it is eighteen years too late
for a half-meant apology
and soon enough,
when the woodsmoke lifts, you'll see
wisterias tying the noose,
swinging lovingly from these corpse-cold fingers.

i remember writing epitaphs.
each word — a love child my tombstone never knew.

iv. january
say my farewells to summer, i cannot wait.
soon, someone will walk me slowly to a river —
all pressed tux and a lace wedding dress
and hold my head down,
gently, softly,
until each tiny breath has escaped
this mad house.
this boneyard.
this mouth.

i do.

i do.

i do.

fin.