His eyes were stars in the night sky,
with constellations swirling as nebulas formed,
a mix of the most beautiful, vibrant colors
that collided with each other,
creating a black hole that ****** me in
and captivating me,
transfixing me into stillness.
A statue.
Those eyes paralyzed me
like the ice his eyes were made of
and the stars that created their beautiful glow.
His lips were like scarlet velvet,
soft, full and perfect.
They kissed me with the utmost gentleness
like they were handling a china doll
and as if I was fragile and breakable,
a glass menagerie.
They curled into a smile so sweet and so genuine
that he made me smile no matter what mood I was in.
His hands were unimaginably gentle.
Callused but smooth;
the hands of a guitarist.
They caressed my cheek ever so lightly,
creating an electric spark where his hand once had touched,
an ever so small electromagnetic field.
His hands held mine,
a perfect fit.
As if they were made only and purely for mine.
Him.
Making my heart stop for a second
or turning my heart into a propellor,
breathing in, out,
in,
out,
so fast I feel dizzy.
His humor, one of a clown,
his kindness, one of a kind.
His cuteness, like a puppy,
and his protectiveness,
a part of him that I am very glad for.
He can make time stand still or speed up
until the days and nights run together,
one after another,
one after another,
so quick...too quick.
He is forever on my mind
like a song stuck on repeat,
a broken record repeating my favorite line
of my all time favorite song.
Like a Black Veil Brides song
that someone won't turn off,
yet I don't mind,
because I like it,
just like I like you.
You are he
and she is me.

i hope my shadow follows you through the rooms of your house
i hope my perfume lingers in your bedsheets and my naked body lingers in your mind
i hope that when you look at your backyard, that all you can see is the red hammock that we broke
and we laughed and laughed
i hope you sit in your living room and remember when i counted the fourteen fake candles. i hope you count them and find fourteen and remember when we kissed on the floor
i hope that blonde hairs litter your possessions. i hope that you find them on your clothes, in your car, in your room, for months after i've left
i don't want to be so easy to get rid of.
i hope my voice has stained all your family photos so that all you can see when you look at them is how cute i thought you were
i hope that the sight of your empty passenger seat physically pains you and i hope that every day you feel as if something important is missing
and i hope that that something important is me  
i hope your lips burn bitter with my aftertaste and your hands grow lonely just like your friday nights without me

i want you to miss me
even if you won't

what’s that saying about sticks
and stones
can break our bones
yet words can never hurt us?
As if abusive parents
with words like knives and
school kids’ insults that dug
into our minds
can ever hurt less than broken bones
As if our emotions can be
suppressed down to a tiny ball
and never burst free
of it’s confined imprisonment
Like a headache could be more painful
than the words we were called  
and the whirl of echoed names
ringing through our ears
reverberating through our heads
and through our entire being
Nights filled with cries for help
and days daydreamed until the ending bell
of a world brimming with innocence and hope
Evenings of desperate actions
and dreams of death and white, white spaces
eternal and empty,
horrific and terrible
So don’t tell me that sticks and stones
could ever hurt more
than the words we were called
and the names we got pegged with
like a paper on a bulletin board
displayed for everyone to see
visible
and alone.

She spoke words
that would melt in your hands
drifting slowly
softly
like snow on a winter’s pale dusk
warming itself against an ashen hand
turning itself into a tiny puddle of water
seeping into your veins
and to your heart
seizing it,
and taking it captive with it’s icy aura
forever changing the way
they see the world,
a newfound perspective
filled with peace
for even though her words
are cold to the touch
it is a touch of peace
which with the fire burning in our hearts
can refine
and create a masterpiece with it,
turning this peace
into the even greater burn for desire,
for tranquility
and a great passion for sweet freedom
Her words shaping a world
where fire and ice
live as one
in perfect harmony
and in beloved symmetry.