Scraps of paper lay around me
filled from top to bottom in black and blue ink
tracing obscure lines that manage to create syllables
and sounds and thoughts from a year ago.

And how obscure those times look now,
written from a naive mind and a hopeful heart.
They're written all over, upside down and under
just of your name turned into metaphors and adjectives.

And it's funny because the first word
I used to ever describe you was "sweetheart."
Little did I know you were nothing but
just a sour replica of a beating *****.

And it's still funny because you pulled on every single one of
my sweet-heart strings until they mimicked the choppy melody
of my breath whenever you're around, and the tension
between our eyes whenever they lock, like our lips once did.

But now, nothing but paper surrounds me in black and blue ink.
Written from top to bottom, they're worth some sort of story and
the synopsis just reads:
I loved you, I loved you, I loved you - first, foremost and possibly forever.

gd

I.
I've got piles of poems lying at the back of my mind
and they all whisper your name
and try to get me to cave
into the moons of your eyes
when you smile a little too hard and
they reach up until the sides of your irises.

But my heart always beats a little too much
and a little too late when I think about you.
It's singing love songs and causing chaos
ahead,
and above,
and all around this **** place.

And maybe, just maybe,
I'm in for much more than I expected
because I'm getting caught up
in potpourri promises
and hope—
stupid hope.

I've got so much on my mind,
and the majority has engraved
w o r r y
into the lining of my temporal lobe
because I cannot seem to shake out your voice
and your smile

and hands
and how they held mine with such clarity
and sincerity
and it's your laugh when you throw your head backwards in exasperation
and when you look at me with those eyes—
those crazy brown eyes.

II.
But I can't tell if I'm losing my mind again
or just throwing it around like a soccer ball
to feel something.

I just don't want you to wake up one day,
with fire in your eyes
and flames at your fingertips

trying to resist the steam rising from your ears
and your smile will fade into the smoke
and your eyes won't mirror my awe

because in that moment I might just burn to ash
at the sight of you changing your mind,
darling.

I might just disintegrate
at the thought of you turning around
and never looking back.

gd

I haven't stayed up this late
since our restless early morning contests
to see who would fall victim to
heavy eyelids and tired thoughts.
I won of course, you most of the time,
but I won on the longest nights (or so I'd like to think)
though my satisfaction was rooted from
something entirely different.
To be honest, I could have cared less about the victor;
I was competitive but I liked when you won -
the shine in your voice and
the glimmer in your smile telling me
how I snored through the night (I didn't)
was much more rewarding.

I haven't stayed up this long
since our late night conversations
turned into early morning slurred sentences
of who could make the most sense
whilst repeating I love you
inaudibly through earphone speakers
and bundled blankets.
And as much as the tiredness
enveloped me in its embrace,
the thought of yours implied through
the telephone waves proved
to be worthwhile, nonetheless.
You were miles beyond my reach,
but you were simple words away.

I haven't stayed up this late
since we fell asleep falling in love
in different beds but with the same desires,
on the same line; on the same page.
And I hate to admit it,
but I still like to think of it that way.

- g.d.

Newton told me that an object in motion tends to stay in motion,
but can he explain why my mind wanders
around the massive uncertainties of this universe
while my feet are kept planted in place?

He mentioned something about my mass and acceleration
creating some explainable force, but how can he account
for the way my heart flutters for miles
just by looking into his eyes?

What force am I creating
other than the force of utter, prodigal passion
that can neither be measured nor equated?
But maybe he got one thing right:

He mentioned something about every action
resulting in an opposite and equal reaction -
so is that why I go from feeling so much
to feeling nothing at all?

gd

Remember when you bought me three pears
because you knew I loved them? One wasn't
ripe at all—took the jaw of lion to crack that
open. Another had gotten smushed under the
weight of my books, leaving pear juice and
residue at the bottom of my backpack, and the
last just made the cut but fell to the floor after
my second bite. We laughed it off, smiling like
lovers & I told you that you ****** at choosing
fruit. But yesterday I stumbled around the city,
intoxicated and nostalgic under all those lights,
trying to grasp any form of support, hoping it
would be your hand on the other end. Passing
the same spot from our first date and that time
we skipped school just to feel invinsible and so
in love, I realized that those three pears were just
some twisted reminder that we ****** at timing,
too.

gd

i.
The pavement glistened at 10:43pm like a shiny new car. And contrary to popular belief, the asphalt was a painter, stroking a green carpet that stretched across the whole street like a pathway to promises. I couldn't help but stare at it; become mesmerized by its colours that danced along with the traffic lights. They fell in sync as if they were falling in love, like two lovers because when one changed, the other followed: from green to yellow to red, the darkness of the night couldn't withstand the strength of the blinding light. The pavement sang along changing itself to mimic the colours above—a love so strong it kept its promises no matter the change, no matter the weather.

ii.
Then I thought about how that must feel—to feel invinsible with someone... but I realized I had known. So long ago, though, I had almost forgotten. But when the memory hits, it hits hard; all the colours of the wind touching your cheeks in hues and shades of greens and yellows and reds and blues. Blue, like the ocean: constantly in flux yet unable to let go of the particles that were knit between them.

iii.
I felt numb watching the wet asphalt, and found myself hoping to feel like before somehow, or in any way close to it. But if I was being honest I would just admit that I'm scared. I'm scared I will never feel that way ever again, not even brave enough to let the wind colour my cheeks. And I've really gotten over everything that's happened between us, really, but what I'm trying to say is I'm lonely and the streets look filled with life when they're actually just empty. And I do not want to become that metaphor—a metaphor for broken promises or a statistic towards bad judgement.

iv.
I want to love. But I'm scared that I've forgotten how because in the process of losing you, I threw away a lot of things including some of my dignity. I just want to know how it feels to have someone's fingers intertwined with yours so tightly that no words would be needed to know they'd never let go. I want to know how it feels to look at someone and hope they'll be the first and last thing you see from then on. I want to remember how it feels to have your heart drop down to your stomach continuously until you can't even breathe.

gd

Do you remember
when we carved our names into that old wooden desk
and you kissed me while I scraped at the surface
as if we were going to last like the promise I engraved into that table.

A shame we didn't.
And even more of a disappointment it was to not see it coming
and yet you latched onto every single neuron in my mind,
engraving your own initials with the same blue pen.

Numb as a needle,
I can still feel the letters scaring over.
They'll stay there forever,
even though you didn't.

gd

April has been making me feel like a fool,
and it's barely even started because
I see your face when you look at me
and it's the same way I looked at him.

Your eyes soften and your smiles inch upward,
but I know you feel like a fool with your
naive heart and hopeful thoughts; I'm sorry
I can't be who you want, I'm sorry
I can't say what you wish to hear, but most of all
I'm sorry that I don't feel sorry at all.

It's just too much of a risk with nothing worth the sacrifice,
which is exactly why I pushed you away
without any regret. In time, you'll see
that what you wanted could not have been me.
Selfish and Honest steer the same sails
if you look close enough at their hinges and intentions.

Then, I think back to how I looked at him
with the same soft eyes and genuine smile and
I realize he must have thought I was a fool too.
Partners in crime, but I was nothing but a punch-line.

gd

Every once in awhile I'll stop time in my head
to linger a little too much in between
every single word I never want to say out loud -
never have the courage to say anyways.

And I get stuck on our bridge,
the one I've burned and rebuilt twelve times over,
just to stay there a little while longer than I should
just to see if you'll come out smiling on the other end.

But with no avail,
I wind up just sitting there alone again
watching the leaves turn from green to orange,
from a fiery red to black ice.

I've watched water glimmering in the luminous sun
turn to overcast mist covered in a sheet of white snow.
I've seen the birds sing with life
only to watch them retreat south once again.

And all the while, I watch all around me
choosing to witness change firsthand
instead of wandering back to
wondering how you are.

Because that leaves my tongue toxic
with words I have no right to say;
ideas I have no right to think about;
emotions I should not even feel.

              But please don't be fooled, I always wonder if you feel the same.

gd

White walls, blank looks,
scattered papers and messy thoughts -
that is what my life consists of right now.
And birds are probably chirping outside
in the spring sun and people are gathering
together in song and in meal and in love.

But I find no interest.
I look forward at the white walls
that have turned beige and the blank looks
that have transformed into sleepy stares,
and I cannot pinpoint the one thing
that is getting me by.

I live to....
what?
To sleep all day to escape the noise and
stay up all night to waste time with silence.
The one thing I despised became
the only thing that kept its promise.

There are papers on the floor and
old clothes on my back and
I can't seem to blink without trying.
For the life of me,
I want to feel alive again;
I want to see the bird chirping and the sun set.

I want to taste the breeze hitting
my cheeks flushing them red,
and for life to kiss my lips as if
they were wishing me goodnight.
But instead, I see white walls
and blank looks.

Scattered thoughts are being binged
on scattered sheets of paper
in hopes of getting rid of the voices in my head.
They do not forget to make you remember.
And the whispers are getting louder:
"Close your eyes for a bit darling, even if you want them shut forever."

gd

A hurricane danced around my room
for what felt like an entire year
and I stayed right in the eye
to collect all my tears.
Beaten into submission,
completely paralyzed by the pain,
I stayed still to protect what left of me
was untouched by its acid rain.

The winds knocked me to my knees.
Nothing but smoke and grey
as I looked up at the sky, facing my fate,
begging the heavens to let me walk away.
Instead, I was kicked to all fours,
left to grip soil so deep it turned my fingernails black.
And even against night’s raging hail,
I only found solace when I counted what I lacked.

My breath gave in and my heart gave out.
For months I was at mercy to a tempest
that just left a ringing in my ears
and replayed all of my deepest fears.
I screamed at the void
into the dead of night
and it only whistled back broken promises
packaged in poisoned pieces of light.

Even when the clouds broke,
I felt no relief beneath my feet.
standing felt like sin
and my reflection was no longer mine to meet.
A stranger’s eyes stared back in silence.
Change was not my choosing.
A slave to the storm,
but it all felt like my doing.

gd

Maybe one day I will wake up
having to take an extra second to remember your voice.
One day, I might just stop
getting hung up on ten little numbers I will never have.

One day, my eyes won't dart around in circles
looking for yours and one day
my heart won't tense up at the mention of your name.
But most of all,

One day I will no longer feel as if I have lost more than I have loved.

But till then,
amidst the pink and blue paintings of the summer skies,
I have stayed grounded
forced by the memories of your touch to keep me in place.

With heightened emotions and faulty desires,
I have become less than brave.
Cowering to the past,
letting the green grass stain my toes with their fibres—

I have let the sun shine on my skin without notice of its plan
to embed itself and linger a little while longer than it should.
I have let the thought of you shade my thoughts for ages,
and I know one day they will all disappear, disintegrate with the clouds.

But I'm a little bit lonely
with nothing but faded company,
so it shouldn't be enough,
but it might as well be.

gd

I have been collecting plane tickets
without even realizing that
they've been collecting dust
in the corners of my room.

But how ironic it is,
presenting itself in plain sight,
watching the matter of time
build up around all these memories

Memories as fleeting
and as temporary
as the pile of dust
clinging to its own past

I just find it so difficult to wrestle
with the beating of my heart
because it creates a song
that leaves me in awe

Paralyzed,
frozen in place,
forcing me to listen
and wanting me to stay

And foreshadowed nostalgia
always seems to run its fingers
down my spine
at the most inconvenient times

Because I still haven't found home

Or maybe I have -
Maybe the bright lights
and the city traffic
have always been calling my name

And I always find my fists clenched
every time the sun sets for the moon,
stealing the day and
distinguishing the light

I am just so tired of saying goodbye.
I'm tired of sleeping the night
knowing that I'll be
gone in the morning

I'm tired of the car rides
and the plane lines,
and the endless paper tickets
that remind me

I'm somewhere else than where I should be

Always on a path less travelled by -
but little did I know
I'd have to do it alone
on some barren road that always feels cold.

gd

After all this time, I could still
make out the slow movements of your mouth
through ****** speakers and static-filled telephone waves.
I could feel your tongue touching your lips an extra second more
whenever you talked; even the tiredness in your articulation
still reminded me of chocolate waterfalls.
After all this time, I still found comfort in your muffled tones.

It took all the courage I had (I hope you know)
to press those ten little digits I was so sure I had forgotten,
even as my heartbeat pumped through my ears like the drum solo
of my favourite song; loud enough for you to hear I was so sure.
Yet, my buried thoughts still crept around the grooves on my mind,
fighting against my senses to resist the urge
of revealing everything I really meant between the lines.
It went a little something like this:

Hi . . . uh, I know this is so out of the blue
I wish it wasn't this hard to say hello
I don't know, I just thought I'd see how you were doing
because I still care *******
How's everything?
I hope you'd say you'd missed me (too)
It's been a long time
It didn't have to turn out this way
Oh, how was . . .
I don't really care, I just need more time; more excuses to hear your voice
Well, it was really nice talking to you
please say this won't be our last good-
Bye.

- g.d.

I wrote a couple stanzas on the back of my transfer ticket
because it brought me to the same place we were 7 months ago,
except these two days contrasted each other in many ways -
similar to the whites of your eyes and the dark chocolate of your iris.

For one, spring is just beginning, which is contrary to when I saw your
smile blossom in the middle of the summer sun. The last time I stepped
foot in that transit booth I knew you were just a simple call away, but
now you're miles beyond my reach both physically and emotionally.

Shopping bags in tow, I left with tiny little trinkets full of life
(just like before) except none of them were you. Nonetheless,
I wrote a couple more stanzas and left a hook in the middle of the chorus
just so I could watch your remains fly away to fulfill its destiny:

a walking poem on the verge of tragedy.

gd

In my mind, I'm putting all the things that remind me of you in a box to leave in the back shelf of my unconscious until these things have changed from objects of dispair, to ones I can look back on and smile about rather than frown - maybe not now, but somewhere, sometime, somehow hopefully soon:

a box of Cheerios because they were your favourite,

Colgate toothpaste because that's what you tasted like,

the notes you left in my locker when you used to pass by every morning,

a cantaloupe because "soft fruits help you kiss better,"

almonds, and nuts in general, because you always talked about bulking diets and were a little nuts to be honest,

a pair of Sperry's because you wore them with everything,

a movie ticket because that was our first "date," and you worked at the local theatre,

a hockey stick because you loved the sport with all your heart,

a CD with a single track on it: Let Her Go by Passenger because you told me that was your favourite song and I hope it's the one you listen to when thinking about me,

and last but certainly not least,
a vile of the scent you wore every single day that I could never manage to decipher even up to now.

- g.d.

You no longer cause hurricanes in my heart
like you used to with the bat of your eyes,
and I've realized I've grown tired
of the way you walk in short strides.

I'm tired of the lingering vowels in the way you speak,
and the distant silence you keep between us on purpose.
I can't fathom how I fell for your
selfish words and pungent scent.

I was so lost in love
(such a foul, sickening word indeed)
to even realize you would lead me
down the path of quite the opposite.

Your actions were misconstrued because your eyes
wandered where I could never dare to look -
past the deadly wood, into another realm where you
built a marble fence around, blocking me off entirely.

How much time I wasted trying to knock that wall over
when it could have been used for my own self-worth.
All the time I spent trying to make you happy,
whilst you did nothing but cause me sadness.

Such noble attributes of a prince
to leave his kingdom in the midst of a war,
leaving his lover to sort through the clutter,
and pay the price for being a "bother".

gd

A penny for your thoughts,
kind sir?
because it seems you've gone
s i l e n t .

In fact, maybe I'll give you a dime,
no, make it a quarter
because call me selfish but twenty-five of your thoughts
might just help me get through the day.

I know you're not fond of uttering your feelings,
but I'm hoping you'll make an exception.
I'd fill your coin jar to the rim
if it meant you'd say my name again.

I'd let it overflow in gold and silver,
maybe a couple bills here and there
if it meant you smiling.
*******,

would you like my entire savings, as well? Because
I'd pay twice the wager to hear your laugh slice through the air.
A penny for your thoughts, kind sir?

Because it seems you've disappeared for quite too long.

- g.d.

Pitch-black and silent; another two am asylum.
And I found myself reaching for another tube of toothpaste
only to pray it didn't taste like you.
Yet a sigh of relief was matched with a sigh of despair
as I came to the realization
that I was losing my grip on a lot of things about us.

Even if I tried, I wouldn't be able to remember
most of our defining angles and edges
that were once so sharp.
So I scoured the stars this late at night
only to lose touch with gravity
and to hear my mind yelling back through the void,

"you should have known,
                       you should have known."

They say smell is the closest sense to memory,
but I was so sure that after all this time
the taste buds on my tongue
could still decipher the fibres from your mint mouth.
But in that moment, I couldn't remember
that you had already forgotten about me before the sun even set.

gd

I wonder if the stars gossip about the moon and sun,
            about whether or not they truly love each other or
                                                        absolute­ly hate each other's guts.*

i.
Because I bet they whisper about the way the sun disappears from sight the moment the moon says hello, or how the moon turns everything to darkness because of this constant disappointment. They probably laugh about the way the sun never finds a way to meet the moon halfway, or how its pride angers its core and causes heat waves to barrage the surface below.

I wonder if the stars ever really know anything. That maybe they have it completely wrong; that the sun and moon are opposite sides of the same spectrum that can never manage to meet in the middle.

ii.
Maybe they do love each other. Maybe the sun runs away from the cratered-creation because it's silhouette makes it shy, and the moon turns everything to darkness because it knows it must wait another lonely cycle just to get another chance - another glimpse. Maybe the sun radiates warmth in hopes it might be strong enough to reach the moon on the other side; strong enough to make them feel a little bit closer than they actually are.

I wonder if the stars speak about the moon and sun
     as if they were fated to burn out - or probably the latter,
                         which entails a miracle that might just last forever.

gd

They were crazy about each other
and that was the problem.
Everything was meant to be laced
with flames and extravagant passion.

Below the blistering winds of winter
were these lovers wearing nothing but their hearts
and sooner or later they were bound to get burned and scarred,
bruised and confused about the madness they drowned in.

But in that moment,
nothing held truer than his hand in hers
and his eyes full of sincerity
and sweet clarity.  

And I swore they could've burst into flames
if they weren't fused together by their fingers,
as if some magnetic ripple navigated the
thump thump thump

throughout their nerves—
so loud and so prominent it demanded to be heard.
And I heard it, behind the sheaths of snow,
under the overpass and between the bundled bystanders.

They were crazy about each other.

gd

I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.

Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.

I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.

I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.

I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.

Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.

I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.

I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.

Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart

and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its ***** as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,

just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.

- g.d.

My biggest flaw always seems to be
holding onto things too tightly
so much so that when I finally gain
the strength to let them go, they only
end up sitting battered and broken in
the palms of my hands
                                            stuck to the fibres
                                            of my fingertips.

gd

I wrote you a letter
about how the sun shone brightest whenever
I caught sight of your smile, and how blue
the sky grew whenever you held my hand.

I wrote it
about the day I fell in love with you
when you did everything right,
so I ended up walking the wrong way home

getting lost in the thoughts of you and
lovestruck
by the potion you probably slipped
into my vanilla coke.

I wrote it
in memory of our first kiss
which triggered fireworks, so hot,
the embers turned into flames,
burning our fingertips but
keeping our lips fused together.

I wrote you a story
about how your laugh made me giggle,
and your touch always soft
as it explored my limbs and
caressed my heart;

how the dimples under your lips
melted me like ice,
or how your scent could bring
angels down from heaven;

I wrote you a chorus
to put into words
how you made me feel
more than human;

how my heart dropped
at the sound of your voice,
and rose again
at the mention of your name.

You see, I wrote you a letter
to tell you how much I loved you,
yet by the time I signed it off With Love,
you no longer loved me in return.

- g.d.

Between cold sheets and muffled giggles,
I remember whispering a harmless
little sentence whilst the
dead of night struggled to live:

"I've never been more sure of anything else in my entire life."

only to end up empty hearted
and empty handed
hanging on for dear life onto
the last plank of our broken bridge.

Needless to say, you lifted four of
my fragile fingers with a slow precision,
ending me off with my pinky to make sure
I watched you break the rest of our promises.

gd

This midnight darkness has cast shadows over my thoughts and rain clouds over my heart. And I think the saddest moment of our lives arise when we come to realize and understand our forgetfulness.

i.
I don't remember how it feels to have the wind blow against my face as I race my way around fences and bushes just to get a "tag." I forgot the vivid rhythm needed to create the perfect snow angel on a winter's afternoon, or the taste of snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. I cannot recall the smell of chocolate cakes my mother used to bake in our old kitchen, nor reaching up for a slice with my seemingly short hair and small hands. Neither do I remember how it sounded when I used to race down the stairs on Christmas Day looking for Santa's treasures. As well as the bittersweet excitement whenever I lost a tooth. Not even the fresh smell of rain for I feel as if I've been stuck in the drought of my mind for the longest time. All of these things are things I used to love; used to look forward to, and now they've lost their fireworks and have only remained in my life as dying embers within the midst of time and fate. I've seemed to outgrow these memories as if they were light-up sneakers and childhood overalls. And that's what I'm scared of: somehow I've come to lose everything about me, becoming replaced with this new socially acceptable person. But how much pure emotion does this hold now that I've grown? Is this overpriced down-feathered pillow truly as comforting as the eight stuffed animals that once kept me company?

Everybody just seems to get tired of everything so they replace their miscellaneous junk, replace their belongings, their clothes, their friends - themselves. How have we become so detached from the things we've seemed to love with all our hearts? And this question always leads me back to you.

ii.
You weren't the smell of chocolate cake, or the taste of snowflakes. You weren't the feel of wind or the sound of Christmas - but you were close. Oh boy, were you close. But now it seems so hard to keep this shelf in my mind empty just for you when I know you do not belong there anymore. But I can't bear to think that you will become irrelevant to me for the years to come. One day, I will see you again and you'll look similar, smell similar, probably feel similar but I know just like every other ephemeral thing, you will be different from what you are now. And I don't know if, at that moment, my heart will crumble under the realization of our burned memories, or if I will go on numbly as if they never existed. Maybe, someone will even catch me looking your way and she'll ask if I ever knew you because me gaze seemed to imply to. Then I'll file through the memory cabinets in my mind trying to recall the feel of your lips
and the touch of your hand
and the light in your eyes
and smirk in your smile
and the swing in your step
and the sting in your voice
and the weight of your affection.... but nothing will be recalled. I will watch our black and white silent story play through my head, follow your stride as you walk away from my sight like the very last time I saw you, and I will long for some soft of feeling, similar to the mountain I possess now, but I'm afraid none of this will be remembered. I will stare numbly down your path, maybe even fake a smile, turn my attention back to her question and only have the heart to say

"I used to."

- g.d.

Let me tell you something about falling in lust before falling in love:
They say the first cut cuts the deepest,
the first kiss lasts the longest and
the first goodbye will always be the hardest.

But only now do I realize we were never really in love,
but rather in great—crazy great—unmistakeable lust.

Lust: hands in your hair, and yours travelling downwards
leaving a trail of fire in your path as it runs down my spine
and seeps through my skin to poison my heart.

By the end of it all my heart sat frozen in place,
unable to beat to anyone except you,
leaving it feeling cold and still
like the bottom of the ocean.

But if I was ice, Love, you were nothing but flames,
engulfing and suffocating.
Lust, sweet lust,
like a never-ending dream, so real but so temporary.

And when the sun is hidden by the clouds
and when the rain starts to pour
and when the wind picks up to the rhythm of our paces in sync
and so intertwined, well, there's nothing left but a catastrophe—
a sweet ephemeral tragedy.

See, Love, we may have been great
and crazy and frozen and burned
but rain washes that all away,
not even nice enough to leave any evidence behind.

The first lust doesn't cut . . . it stabs,
and it has just forced me to spill new blood on old pieces of paper.

gd

Please do not sing me to sleep
For I might crumble under the weight of your harmony.
Please do not look at me with those wide, bright eyes
For I might look away from the sight of such faultlessness.

Please do not read to me,
Nor speak to me with a poet’s articulation.
Leave me be with the thoughts of your imperfections
For I might drown at your touch.

I am the girl who falls for the words;
I am the girl with the weak knees and the stutter
Whenever you walk into the room.
I am the girl who will love the sound of your hum,

And the feel of your hands.
Just as easily as a pencil,
I will break under the weight of affection.
I will be carried away by the expressions of your timbre,

So please do not leave me at a cliff-hanger;
Do not let me become captivated
By the stressed syllables and the curve of your laugh.
Please do not break me by the sound of your voice

For just like the words I am fragile –
I am the girl who falls for them.
I am the girl with the lyrical thoughts,
Merely captivated by your lyrical being.

                                                              - g.d.

To sum it all up,
I don't think anyone
has been able to
understand me as well as you did -
understand me enough to know
I needed help understanding myself.
So when you left,
you left me in this trance
where I didn't know whether
to walk back or run forward.
Instead, I lit myself on fire
thinking it would be easier
to learn from scratch
than to fix broken glass.
But either way,
I came up confused with ****** hands.

gd