I'm happier without you.
But, I don't write poems anymore.
At least, not of him.

To think I was quenched by the drips of a rickety faucet,
when there was the whole ocean.
Now that I'm finally here,
I will stay.

Snowflakes stuck on the window pane,
mesmerizes me every single time.
Each with its own intrinsic pattern,
like fingerprints of a thousand angels,
scattered about delicately,
in multiple shades of pearly diamond dust,
trying hard to appear abstract,
but failing to disguise the meticulous magnificence
with which they have been created,
not only restoring faith in a divine power,
but also confirming she's an artist.
But, they say it's really bad for the window.

Though I'm confident I know every inch of you by now,
I'd rather not say 'like the back of my palm',
for the familiarity is more tantamount to the air that I breath.
If I were to describe you to a sketch artist,
I would be stumped, completely lost for words.
If I were pressed I'd ponder for an eternity,
and reluctantly begin with your eyes, if pressed some more.
I would say they are dusty blue and deep, deep not in the hue
but the capacity for me to get lost in them forever.
The beard, rustic and playfully speckled in shades of crimson,
is a tug of war between a starving artist and an ancient Greek philosopher.
Freckles in-between resemble the night sky with my favourite constellation,
plus a few more stars scattered for that extra sparkle.
Those ridiculously long eye lashes completely wasted on any other man,
forcing me to restrain blinking in your presence,
so I would not miss a single time you blink,
hence witnessing third of a second of divine artistry.
You are indescribable and defining you as perfect would be an extreme misstatement,
for you are not the ultimate level of mortal physical attraction.
You are a memory, a vision and an everyday feeling,
inherent yet I relentlessly pursue and strive to own.
You could make raging atheists superstitious,
whereas for me you are salvation.  
So if I were truly pressed to describe even vaguely the way you look,
it will have to be in animated glossolalia, or resort to a quick intake of breath
followed by a wistful sigh and gazing dreamily into the abyss.
On most days I think you are my every dream,
but here you are, very real.

I wonder what we are trying to do.
Are we trying to write our love story,
or fit into the characters of one that's already written,
by just you or just me or an anonymous author or society?
Either way as it appears improvisation is not our forte
and the plot is yet to thicken.
Do we really have things in common, or
pretending to believe in the opposites attract notion?
I can see us shaving bits and bobs of ourselves off,
as usual me more than you,
and wedging mismatched corner pieces together,
almost hoping we'll some how stick, grow and evolve,
like a transplanted ***** or a candle wick in wax,
when in reality all we are is a badly in-completed puzzle.
We share a sense of brokenness and a fear of being broken,
so together we are skeptical of most things, and all people,
and hold our emotions hostage,
while using emoticons and gifs instead,
hoping if we play independent and self-love cards often enough,
we'll somehow win the hand,
when no one knows the rules of the game,
except that the stakes are really high.
Perhaps what we are doing is to see if we can walk together,
you on your side of the road and me mine,
sometimes one leading the other, and sometimes side by side.
But if neither one of us knows where we are going,
will the journey still be worth the while?

Just when the ****** I found on your bedroom floor,
was finally clarifying our relationship as casual and nothing more,
you went and blabbed about your nan.
I wish you'd stop baring random bits of your soul,
when this has been nothing but a *******,
and quit crossing the line I keep drawing in the sand.

Lying in bed cocooned by sweaty old sheets,
un-showered with last nights make up on the face,
binge watching Grey's Anatomy for the second time,
I felt more closer to you than anyone else in the world.
Isn't it ironic how the love which once made us soar,
see the world in a brand new light,
added a skip to our stride and a boost to our pride,
can bring us to our knees on a bathroom floor,
gasping for air,
for that same love was now taking our breath away,
in a humiliating, excruciating, soul ******* kind of way.
But you were only acting.
I'm not.

It wasn't until you pulled the carpet from underneath me
that I realized I was never the princess;
I was in fact the genie.
I had been blissfully unaware,
enjoying the view from up there,
dazzled by you,
when the world was never new.
I'm trapped in the dark now, again,
free falling through the starless sky.
It was never magic was it, just voodoo?
Well, no more wishes for you.

When your favourite song came up on my Spotify,
I froze.
For just over 4 minutes I couldn't move,
I couldn't think,
I could barely breath or even blink.
I felt cold, abandoned, disoriented, hopeless,
like the moment I knew we were done.
I'm holding on to Winter,
but there's the sun.
It hurts more than anticipated,
but I'm not deleting the song.
Shuffling between self destruction and being strong,
I must go on.

When the man at the hardware store asks,
what shade of blue are you looking for sugar,
to paint the walls of our hypothetical son's room,
I would have said heartbreak,
the same shade of heartbreaking blue as his daddy's eyes.
Ironic, because I would have rooted for a gender neutral colour,
an agnostic upbringing and a liberal education,
but somewhere down this erratic, dysfunctional relationship,
I stopped caring, or perhaps, cared only of you.
Since you left there's nothing to care about,
there's no you, there's no us, there's no motivation,
my priorities, values and aspirations are still maintaining a distance,
I'm feeling a heartbreaking shade of blue.
Like that one time I got high on dried out ****,
I was completely aware of every stage of this breakup,
the shock, the disbelief, the sadness, the pain, the regret,
until it stopped.
The world has come to a standstill,
leaving me tripping between spring and snowflakes on the windowsill,
I'm not coming down from the high, or low,
I should have got you out of my system 4 years ago.
It's not a linear process, said my friend,
and I know what he means,
because for everyday I get through without thinking of you,
I spend weeks curled up in pain in bed or on the floor,
feeling a heartbreaking shade of blue.
Kept awake at night, weary, paranoid and deluded,
suffocated, drowned in despair, sometimes even in air,
in the shallow words, empty promises and plans made,
thrown into solitary confinement among hundreds of other people,
breaking me, when I'm already broken.
All while you stripped me of my dignity, intuition and optimism,
disregarded my needs, exploited my insecurities and wasted my heart,
I thought I knew you,
come to think of it, I don't think your eyes are blue.

*****,
cigarettes,
knives,
many options,
when you are not one.

The 2500 km between us seems unreal,
when the picture of you in my mind, almost tangible,
keeps me grounded on most days.
Trekking across the corporate bog clinging to dreams of a country life,
with a peculiar combination of smug sheepishness,
provoking instincts to ravish or protect, I cannot decide.
The way you have with words is supernatural,
because your eloquence leaves me hypnotized,
the best case of spellbound I have ever been.
You had me at your first email,
keeping me sane and driving me insane,
you are, my favourite kind of perfect.
You've managed to lower all my guards,
breakdown all the walls, and
gather up a life's worth of insecurities into a ball.
Just as I stopped walking around on tip toes,
you've shattered it to a million shards,
and now I'm lying bleeding on the floor.
I'm drowning in air, waking up to a nightmare,
lost in my mind, paralyzed in my senses,
so much for believing in second chances.
Touché,
for perfectly blind siding me,
I couldn't save myself.

It's that time of the night; that time of the night
when you've made a new year's resolution to give up ****,
smoked the last cigarette and the shops are closed,
but sleep as it appears has little regard for the better person you are trying to be,
so you scroll through random videos and searches on how to beat insomnia to find,
Historic photos of love during wartime.
Suddenly you are craving for that kind of a grand love;
a love so great it hurts, it stops time,
it's commemorated years after,
but would it have to be a soldier?
Would there have to be a war, because #WorldPeace and #SayingNoToViolence is trendy at the moment,
so perhaps a sailor or an astronaut?
Does it have to come with an epic good bye, miles apart and no guarantee of return?
Though we all ache for an epic romance, that may be just a little too much work.
Suppose it's only natural when you're living a daydream and think in cliches,
the kind of love you sort after is ironic.
Is there just one?
Would it still be grand, hypothetically speaking, if it's lucky number six you are on,
As we've got the goodbyes, the distance and unpredictability down to a T,
before I become all dried out--- of love,
hope you'll make it rain, for me.

It's been a while since we last spoke,
3 years to be precise, but who's counting anyway, not me.
Definitely not me.
By the way I unfriended you on facebook,
I figured it's about time, I mean after 3 years of radio silence,
a long term girlfriend for you,
and a series of unsuccessful hookups for me,
I figured it's about time I gave up the illusion of being friends with you.
Every now and then I look you up,
and thanks to your disregard for security and privacy settings,
I stalk you, and her.
She seems nice, positive, bubbly,
committed to all the right causes,
I cannot really find any reason to dislike her. Shame.
Perhaps if I said yes the second time round, or the third,
perhaps if we hadn't been so young and had another go,
perhaps if you said yes, when I eventually felt so,
we'll never know.

Having googled and failed to find the right metaphor
to express this all too familiar phase in life,
the alarmingly low levels of self-esteem
conveniently stepped up to suggest,
a fresh pineapple at the local supermarket
during the harshest of Finnish winter.
Its exotic and festive look draws attention,
everyone wants a bite but no one knows how the **** to peel it.
So they observe with great curiosity from just far enough,
to avoid touching the prickly leaves or skin.
The go to center piece of any, maybe just hipster, parties,
misplaced on top of an excruciating variety of pizzas,
spiking Sangria since the beginning of time,
and most appreciated upside down on cakes.
It draws attention and triggers discussions,
but no one knows what to do or how to feel about it,
except to watch with keen interest from a dramatized distance,
and take the canned stuff home instead.

The space between my finger tips and the phone
is cramming with pride, doubt and hurt,
it's suffocating.
Can you hear me choking?
I can't hear you,
but I bet you're breathing just fine.

At the basic stage of learning a language comes pairs of most commonly used antonyms,
words meaning opposites of each other like the earth and the sky,
far away and close by,
love and hate,
metaphorically speaking even you and me.
Except, sky begins right where earth stops,
so if you really think about it only the soles of our feet are truly grounded,
while our heads have always been in the clouds.
Distance is subjective, so depending on how fast a ride is or the resolution of a lens,
sunsets and full moons are that much closer than a lover's touch.
Love and hate are not two sides of the same coin,
or the extreme ends of the same spectrum,
but rather the same side of the same coin,
exuded by the same people at the same people for the same reasons,
interdependent,
coexisting,
one defining the other.
Well, I suppose that leaves you and me.
As in it literally leaves you and me out,
metaphorically speaking,
figuratively speaking,
theoretically speaking,
you and I aren't antonyms after all because,
as it appears we do not define each other or anything in between.
Like the ocean and a bumblebee.
Here I am calm and blissful with sunlight bouncing off of every wave,
dramatic and roaring, heightened with emotions soaring,
bearing an infinity of life, continuously giving, nurturing and upholding,
but all you want is honey;
metaphorically speaking.

So you did remember me.
Having not heard from you in an eternity (10 days),
wondering if you've forgotten me,
drawing rather graphic mental images of some girl you're *******,
it's good to hear from you.
The beer may be small,
but for a second I envied that cold glass of alcohol,
which looked too comfortable in your tight grip.
Jesus, I'm jealous of a ******* glass of beer.
Come home soon,
even though neither of us have one.

It's common knowledge that after getting a phone number,
one must wait three whole days before giving a call,
to make sure the interaction remains calculatedly casual,
as opposed to needy or uninterested,
which is complete cupid ****!
It's appalling that one's intense desire to contact an individual one is drawn to,
is not seen as a mere gesture of sentiment or affection,
but rather weakness and vulnerability.
Even in the darkest and drunkest hours
there will be no super likes,
for no one can afford to wear the heart on their sleeves,
in this world of left and right swipes.
The chase is so overrated not only does it never end,
but also overlooks the catch even when it's finally caught.
True feelings disguised by emojis concentrated into 140 characters
ridicule the ideology of love and romance,
when really we're nostalgic of the times,
we once murmured into brick sized cordless phones at wee hours in the morning,
"you hang up... nooo you hang up first..."
When did meeting the parents not become meeting the parents,
but rather the quick show of another chick to flaunt how well life is going at the moment?
When did compartmentalizing life mean pursuing romantic relationships over the weekends only?
When did to love, to want, to need, to show affection become such girly things,
those who are engulfed by romantic comedies and sensitivity did?
All I really want is to call you and tell you how much I miss you,
and just listen to you breath even if you don't have anything to say.
But, I guess I'll just wait for you to whatsapp me sometime during the weekend...

I despise you
not for being the sexist, fascist, racist,
unreliable twit you are,
but rather for making me say
"I told you so" to myself,
for the fourth time.

You said confidently
"I know you'd like me even if I were fat",
ogling at my tiny waist,
long legs
and firm ***.

Like smoking and faith in God,
no matter how hard I try to give up,
think rationally and move forward,
when I see your face,
I'm addicted,
I'm a believer,
a cliche,
over and over again...

Among many other things summer nights are so profoundly exhausting in this part of the world at least,
as the sun battles ferociously with the night,
refusing to set, protesting to go down quietly,
mocking late evenings with brilliant rays of light,
tricking the minds of us mortals,
particularly the birds who naively sing mistaking the time of day.
The breathtaking view, apart from its beauty and poetic inspiration, is tormenting,
creeping in through tightly shut curtains,
making those trying to get a good nights rest or a good old lie-in stay awake out of guilt,
almost as an unspoken but mutually agreed sense of duty to capture and preserve every beam of light while it shines.
Ironically, some of us prefer the bitter winters and have little reason to stay awake,
and most definitely have enough tan to feel outcasted from the entire Nordic population,
so excuse the nights owls, bats and myself for wishing the summer sun to set already...

As I'm sobering up
from your intoxicating hazel gaze,
realizing the spark I've been seen
is merely the reflection of my own,
I find myself no longer lost in your eyes,
but simply... lost.

I have a dream.
Not a noble, revolutionary one that will change the discourse of humanity,
but one which would most definitely change my own life,
and possibly yours.
We are driving in your car, which in my imagination is a dark blue skoda octavia, but frankly it doesn't matter,
'cause I'm smiling looking out the window and fighting with you over the radio channel choice.
The smell from the basket of muffins I baked secured on the back seat is wafting through the air,
and I'm playfully slapping away your wondering right hand up my left thigh which the little white summer dress I'm wearing can in no way cover,
only to reach out and ruffle your hair and the back of your neck 'cause I truly can never get enough of you.
You are smiling too, 'cause you know, you always do.
100 miles later as we pull in front of your childhood home I'm excited and nervous at the same time,
so you do have to coax me out of the car and we walk hand in hand to the door and just as you reach out to ring the bell,
I hide behind you trying to pull myself together and touch up on my smile,
but as the door opens I'm back by your side smiling 'cause your grip on my hand is more assuring than anything I've felt before.
I'm shy at first but your mom is lovely,
though it must be hard to see her little boy next to another woman,
God knows I could never share you.
The twinkle in your dad's eyes may as well be a reflection of yours,
his handshake is strong, warm and reassuring.
Your little brother, whose already growing on me, is making eyes at you and you're warning him, almost threatening him to behave, silently of course, it's all in the eyes.
I take in the house,
the corridors through which you ran, fell and got up again,
the walls which echo your laughter, pain, sorrow, fears, achievements and failures,
and stood strong throughout every step of your life's journey in becoming the man you are,
it's like a story, a novel or a theatrical extravaganza unfolding in front of my eyes.
I follow your mom to the kitchen, not because I want to be the perfect domesticated future daughter in law,
but rather because it's where I find comfort.
The stove and oven are hard at work, and I immediately take over peeling potatoes,
as I try to make conversation with your mom in my incredibly limited vocabulary,
and I can tell she appreciates the effort.
When we sit to eat I'm already at home and I just cannot stop smiling,
because it's absolutely perfect.
It's a little too perfect.
After all it's just a dream. My dream. A cliché.
But dreams, hopes and expectations apart I just wish I knew,
if we were more than ***.
If I knew I'd at least have the truth,
because we both know dreams, particularly the perfect ones,
almost never come true.

To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.  
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a *******, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...

It all comes back to you.
A premature declaration of love,
hundreds of cigarettes,
several one night stands,
many bottles of *****,
sleepless nights,
pep talks,
and six months later,
I still miss you when you are gone.
The hopelessness that surrounds me when the comfort of your presence in our apartment building is absent is almost indescribable,
if it weren't a precise forecast of one millionth of despair I'd feel when you eventually leave for good.
That despair I'm certain is going to feel like a gun shot would to the spleen.
I know I'm not your type of girl,
considering our only common denominator is nicotine,
when we cannot even find a film or a song we both like,
let alone anything in between.
It is evident you are far from my ideal type of guy, except
I think you are the guy.
Mixed signals and star patterns apart,
when you helped unzip that play suite,
there was nothing confusing or unclear about the shock of electricity that followed your touch from my neck to the waist down my spine.
They all say we look great together,
and I always think only if how great I felt when I was with you could be painted, photographed or just captured in some mainstream form for them to see,
the definition of absolute greatness.
But I am not much more than the smartphone you leave in your room,
the same owner and little use.
I dislike physics and gaming, as much as you detest large crowds and dancing,
but I idealize the thought of being different together,
which I know you don't.
Metaphorical or not you wondered out loud what it would be like,
so let me tell you,
I will be the lights out and shy kind of girl,
I will be submissive, amateur and giddy,
it would be absolutely indescribable, except
I am certain it will resemble the first time one sees the Northern Lights only a million times more incredible,
when you must truly experience it to know the feeling.
The fact of the matter is I obviously never stopped needing you, and
apparently didn't succeed at not showing it either.
The bottom line is when you are not sleeping in your room two floors above my own,
I really miss you very much, and
it's a lot worse than missing you when you are casually sprawling across my bed.
I wonder if you maybe feel one millionth the same...

If you knew, if you even had the slightest idea
how incredibly fragile my smile is,
how acute my craving for affection is,
how lost, broken and lonely I feel,
how every bone, every single cell of my body aches to just feel your warmth,
how emotionally hungover I get each time I close the door of your flat behind me,
I wonder if I'll still be your Friday night girl...

I don't want to be your
Friday night girl,
one night stand,
end of a busy week's treat,
or pastime.

I definitely don't want to be your
fetish,
score,
drunk companion,
or ****** relief.

If I'm being perfectly honest (to myself),
I'm rather confident,
I don't want to be anything of yours at all...

My sweet sweet girl,
you should know that in this land of tormenting coldness
and mind numbing loneliness
you are my ray of hope.
We all need a source of positivity to draw on
and you are mine.
To laugh out loud for no apparent reason
to get drunk with on a Thursday afternoon
to talk about world politics, boys and the future
you are my partner in crime
the best wing woman
cheerleader
all in one.
Ironic isn't it?
Because I am that to many
and I used to think I was that too.
I guess sometimes even saviours need saving.
I was like you once, many many years ago.
Expecting the best of everything and everyone,
looking at the world through large, bright and sparkly lens of positivity.
I still do.
I still think there's something magical about snow,
stop in my tracks to watch jet paths in the sky,
give the benefit of the doubt to everyone,
and keep searching for Prince Charming.
Only difference is I now identify myself as delusional,
as opposed to optimistic.
The thing is love,
once you find yourself doubled up on the floor,
with every single blood cell infused with *****,
crying out to a God you perhaps no longer believe in,
to just bring you sleep, just this once,
so you can sleep through all this pain and darkness,
there is no turning back.
You can no longer unsee, unhear, undo, unbreak,
change becomes inevitable.
It used to be that if you don't bleed you are not ill,
so no one took us folk seriously when we said it hurts.
So the ******* shrinks drew a list of symptoms,
which did not include big smiles and out going personalities disguising the excruciating burning inside,
so once again no one really believes us when we say it hurts.
Unless we **** ourselves and finally everyone gathers around
with their shocked expressions of disbelief to claim,
'but she looked so happy',
when the first thing we all learnt was how looks could be deceiving.
Everyone looks for love in different places and have different ways of loving.
Specially parents.
You see I thought I broke and hit rock bottom many years ago.
To be honest it wasn't until my mother turned her back on me
that I realized what the definition of broken was.
Parents love their children and God knows mine loves me,
but on nights like this I just want to hear from my mother
that she loves me and believes in me,
but all I remember is the look in her eyes.
It was hatred. It was pure hatred.
Months later after supposedly patching up everything,
that look haunts me,
and breaks me a little bit more every single time.
But I am delusional so I see something profoundly poetic
in my brokenness.
I now truly know what the world holds.
So next time I see someone throwing her head back with a smile little too wide stealing the show,
I'm going to appreciate her effort so much more,
because its not easy to remain delusional.
I hope this world will only bring the very best to you.
I hope you will only know love, acceptance, admiration and success.
As for me,
I hope one day I will be able to stop getting broken,
or in the least get used to the pain.

The harshest truth about unrequited love is
when all is done and dusted
hands washed
rejection accepted
there is nothing left.
All the talk about memories made,
to have loved and lost than not love at all,
to have made a friend forever,
is a load of ******* to be honest,
like your puppy who was sent to a big, happy farm in the country side,
like Santa Claus,
like telling yourself in the mirror over and over again "you are over him. you are happy".
So when he's sat cross legged on your bed calculating the final chess move to checkmate with a devilish look in the eye,
limping around on a sprained ankle after football,
explaining how light works,
cutting an extra large pizza into four and folding each quarter in half before devouring it,
moving close to show a ******* star pattern only he can see,
giving a pair of ******* gloves for Christmas cause your favourite pair was lost on a night out in October,
always lighting your cigarette first,
casually mentioning over dinner how he might move to Belgium next spring for an internship,
you have no say. You have no right to feel.
You have no right to say how you feel.
So you pretend,
admiring the ******* star patterns you could never see in the first place,
acting tensed when he hugs,
congratulating him on the amazing job opportunity taking extra care to make sure your smile is wide and reaches your eyes.
You pretend,
putting to use 16 years of professional drama training,
regardless of having an out-of-body experience each time he does something that takes your breath away,
where you watch yourself crumble to the floor, face flat, gasping for air, one hand on the chest and the other over the mouth,
while you stand strong, smoking and smiling,
listening to him talk about electricity, FIFA  or something,
all while watching yourself die, from the corner of your eye.
Unrequited love is superbly overrated,
by poets, artists, writers and all those who have loved and lost.
In reality it's a simple phenomenon which drives one to the mental intersection of insanity, self-destruction and creativity,
caused by a sense of ownership one feels towards another which is nonexistent, not reciprocated, not mutual and really ****** up.
So really don't get up or stand up,
infact don't even bother to feel,
cause you really have no rights...

I wonder if you knew
when you turned the lights out
closed my bedroom door
and stood behind me
by the large misty window
to point out a star pattern
in the night sky
all I wanted was to turn around
and watch their reflection
in your eyes.

I wonder if you knew
at that very moment
those stars felt far more close to me
than you were...

To get to sleep tonight
on the same pillow
your head had laid
moments before
knowing all I'll ever have
is your lingering scent
and my imagination...

Babe,
if you were my man I'd start off by calling you babe.
I think it's **** in a confident to the point kind of way, just like my love for you.
I would run into your arms in a ***** dancing lift kind of manner each time I see you, just because that's how excited I would be to see you, every single time.
I would kiss you. I would ******* ravish you with my tongue, lips, teeth, and you will know what it's like to kiss, what it's like to really kiss.
I would run my fingers, all of them, through your hair sweeping it back from your face and just hold you really close to mine, spending an eternity figuring out what colour your eyes really are,
cause you'd always crinkle them when we're together, cause I'd make you smile, laugh and happy all the time,
so I'd have never really seen what colour they really are, and when I find out it wouldn't matter anyway,
cause that will be my favourite shade of eye colour to begin with.
I would sit on your lap and put my arms around your neck and continue to tell my aimless yet superbly animated stories of things I saw, people I met, thoughts in my head, when all I really want is to be just that close to feel the heat of your body, your pulse and your gaze.
I will cook for you and make you do the dishes just so I can stand next to the counter and watch you align them on the drying rack with ridiculous precision, which I find lethally adorable.
I would re-learn physics, follow football, play video games, listen to punk rock all of which I really dislike, just so I can be another step closer to your world.
I would do anything, absolutely anything for you, and let you do anything to me, cause I trust you a 100%, interestingly the only man I can say that about other than my father.
I would learn to speak your language just so I can meet your family for Christmas and thank your parents from the very bottom of my heart for bringing you into this world and raising you to be the man you are.
I would however never try to change you.
I would preserve you and the perfect, raw, uncontaminated essence of humanity you carry, and rather change, adapt and give up myself to be with you.
I would vouch to spend the rest of my life with you, change my name for you and bear your children.
Babe,
if you were my man I would in a heart beat die or **** for you, and the latter over and over again.
I know you would never want me to change and like me for who I am,
ironically,
you wouldn't be my man.

Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Before bed,
first thing in the morning,
when you randomly wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
In the beginning it's almost like a new toy or a car,
the excitement when you first download it,
the careful precision with which your profile is created,
how into it you are all day all night,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Then slowly a pattern emerges.
You get the insanely sporty ones,
running, jumping, swimming, lifting freaking weights,
and you think if I were looking for a personal trainer I would swipe right but no thanks.
Then there are the travelers,
on a world tour since the beginning of time with no permanent address, let alone any potential for a relationship, so you swipe left on instability.
Then there are the 6 packs and no heads,
making you wonder when muscles and treasure trails overrode eyes,
and cringing at the sight of those semi shirt lifted body shots, you swipe left.
Then there are genuinely you're not attracted type,
too much baggage type,
too good looking making you skeptical type,
standing too close to girls type,
reptiles as pets type,
really bad grammar or purging emoticons type,
alcohol is a hobby type,
no ambition or future type,
on all which you keep swiping left.
Every now and then there's the just right type, with the right amount of words and smiles,
sincerely looking for something more than *** or just good at pretending they are,
so you swipe right.
A match...
You never end up talking anyway so swiping on, all day long,
and you realize this is *******!
The only thing that's getting anything is your right index finger,
and there are much better ways in which it too can be put into use.
You realize even after expanding the age limits to highly questionable numbers and including the maximum area in distance,
and proactively lowering your standards,
you still haven't swiped right on Mr. Right.
You realize you aren't looking but rather searching for that one face, that specific personality who already escaped between your fingers like that one cute guy you accidentally swiped left on a super drunk night while eating peanut butter out of the jar,
or that one guy who you thought was perfect so you super liked but never liked you back.
You realize you are searching for a specific person who doesn't have a Tinder profile but lives in the same building as you, who'll never swipe right for you even if he had the chance.
So you unmatch all those stupidly silent, mute, mistakes of matches, reset the preferences to more respectable limits and...
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--

Today was special.
When I dressed up and put make up on,
and slipped on those high heels,
and did my hair to the side, sleek, straight and deep red,
I did it for me.
I sang and danced and sang and danced some more,
for me.
I hadn't smoked for 48 hours,
since you left me in my ball dress in that cold winter night,
smoking on my own,
I thought I'd quit.
I'd quit smoking and I'd quit you.
I was doing so well.
I almost made it but then....
I rolled one.
You were creeping in and out of my subconsciousness,
along with the urge for nicotine,
and I'm only human.
I'm fully aware of the consequences,
I've seen, heard and read the warnings,
on health advertisements and cigarette packets,
I know smoking and you are so bad for my heart,
but tonight I could really do with you...

I wish there was some way I could express to you how you make me feel.
Though the common language we share is different from both our mother tongues,
though I can get over my fear of sounding incredibly self absorbed,
I just can't find the right words or the right way,
because it's a lot more than that.
You are a gift. You are a blessing. You are what everyone needs
because everyone deserve to be seen the way you see me.
You see beneath my beautiful, you see beneath my perfect, you
see the story underneath my clothes and every other song lyric written about being seeing for who one truly is.
I don't put make up on for you, hell I don't even shower,
and we've already talked about pooping, say what, right?
I cooked for you and I'm the most nervous cook cause I'm shadowed by the concepts of all real women having to be excellent cooks, and I was not nervous at all.
I've told you everything about me.
You are the only man in this whole wide universe who knows everything about me.
And you're still here. You still like me. I still make you laugh and you me.
I've never met someone so... so... human. I see the very essence of humanity gushing out of you its actually mesmerizing.
I must confess I smoke more now cause it's another excuse to spend more time with you.
I keep turning every few minutes to check the buttons on the lift hoping it goes all the way up to the 9th floor and bring you down to me.
I long to meet you its genuinely like a nicotine break, like how you wait for the lecturer to give the first interval to step out for a quick smoke.
It's exactly like that but so much stronger, and unlike nicotine you are good for me and I would never ever try to give you up.
You and I, its not ******.
Honestly, you are a brother, father, friend, soulmate, lover all combined in this surreal specimen of a man, even after one and a half months I cannot still believe I met you. Or more so that men like you exist.
I would love to take this to the next level, rip your clothes off and let you make sweet love to me,
but if that's not what you want I'm ok with being what we are right now.
I really am.
I guess I just want to say thank you for seeing me for who I am.
It's been so long and I really really needed this.
I now feel empowered and I will owe you my self-confidence and self-esteem,
honestly,
*kiitos

Do you remember your first one night stand? The very first?
It's funny how in all the wrong ways it's very much like in the movies,
but in some it's not, which often leaves you properly ****** up,
many days after the actual *******.
It always starts with *****.
***** you absolute poisonous ambrosia, tell me how can you resemble
love so very well?
From the exaggerated self-confidence, delusional happiness to the shame and atrociously bitter after taste, not to mention the ****** of a hangover,
you my friend might well be love's virtuous twin.
What does 'a one night stand kind of girl' look like?
I used to think 'definitely not like me',
but tonight the discoloured mirror in my bathroom begs to differ.
She looks remarkably like me. She is me.
Perhaps there's an equation with variables of age, time and the amount of one night stands which calculates how well one fits into the model,
irrespective of the math somehow she looks strikingly similar to me.
Ability to dance topped with confident is my kryptonite.
So after dancing so **** fine, when he looked me dead straight in the eyes, and said "I want to take you home, kiss you and *******",
like hell I couldn't resist.
Everything was just like in the movies right down to the clothes
scattered all over the floor, leaving without getting his number, and
the infamous walk of shame.
But,
he was gentle.
He asked "is this really what you want" even at the very last moment,
when his naked body was lying on top of mine,
fractions of an inch away from entering me,
which made me think of my unborn son and how I will teach him about self control, respect and the vitality of consent.
How this is what a true gentleman behaves like, even when the beast within him was roaring to be unleashed.
He held me tight all night long.
He buried his face in my neck and wrapped his arms so tightly around me, I could feel his heart beat through my veins.
His cologne ran all night long and into the morning reminding me how much I used to get turned on by men's aftershave, one of my favourite scents in the world,
right amongst freshly baked cookies, rain on dry grass and wall paint.
This was not like in the movies.
As I bid him goodbye and locked his fancy apartment door behind me,
I felt rudely shaken awake from the day dream, I felt something in me drop.
It wasn't because I knew I would never see him again,
but rather 'cause I knew later tonight I'd remember last night and miss the sensation over and over again.
The phenomenon of feeling desired, the warmth that accompanies hours of drunken ***, the sweaty stickiness, the giddiness, the passion that accompany a one night stand.
Not being alone.  
A warm bed.
I knew I will miss all that. I miss all that.
I forgot my wristwatch on his bedside table.
Made me think of the time I lost.
The time I lost calculating the significant impact a one night stand would have on my dignity.
The time I am loosing thinking about the past, though so very raw and fresh, which remains unattainable.
I also forgot my earrings on the floor next to his bedside table, when I removed them in  hurry in the heat of the moment, in fear of accidentally scraping him.
Us girls, we do that a lot.
We remove pieces of ourselves to avoid hurting the fugitive men who walk in and out of our lives, and leave those pieces behind,
without realizing that with every encounter we were becoming less and less like our true-selves.
Both pieces were cheap gifts from someone in the family that I held to for many years.
They made up in sentiment what they lacked in price.
Very much like virginity.
You realize after sometime like religion, race and nationality its a socially constructed concept.
It is only as valuable and important as you want it to be.
Virginity should not define anyone.
"Virginity should not define you", I said to the girl in the mirror.
For a one night stand kind of girl, her eyes were so judgmental.

When you light a fire
to get rid of the darkness,
and end up burning all your bridges...

There's something so fundamentally romantic about a broken man
or should I simply say, "I dig that!"?
A man tormented by the demons of a shattered childhood, or
a shattered heart on which a pair of expensive pencil heels, the shiny black kind with a blood red sole, has stomped all over.
Or maybe shaken to the core from the long cold nights and
scorching days spent at a military base with gun fires and screams
ringing in his ears even after all these years.
I long to hold him,
as he twists, mourns and shivers through the nightmares,
I want mine to be the only embrace that makes them all go away.
When those scars hurt, or the injury from the practice session
is not as unbearable as the fear of not being able to play again,
I just want to hold his hands as they grip mine so tight,
almost in an attempt to transfer the pain.
When that fever is burning so high he's going in and out of reality
with a wet cloth on his forehead all bundled up and drugged, I want
my name to be the only thing he calls out.
Every now and then when he breaks down in the shower crying
his heart out, or explodes with vengeance in his eyes ready to hit,
destroy or ****, I want
my palm pressed against his heart to make the storm pass.
When he becomes unsteady and slurry, with the smell of Whiskey
overriding the aftershave, I want to be the one to take him home
and tuck him into bed.
I want to know, see, hear and feel all his pain, his fears, his
darkest moments and be the remedy, his only escape.
I don't want to fix him. Or change him. Or save him.
I want to be his lifeline, his anchor to the mortal world, and
rope ladder to heaven.

Though I never searched for you proactively
on night outs, family gatherings or by the side of the street
here you are
so very far from my notion of Mr. Right
an incredibly small fish
in an even smaller pond
leaving both my brain and heart baffled
about this burning sensation I get in my ****
every time I think of you.

Marry me,
I want you to be just mine
I don't share
I'm an only child.

I like the way you
always light my cigarette before yours
check the road before letting me cross
hold the office door open
stay calm and composed
rock pink and purple shirts and ties
crack insanely hilarious jokes
talk ***** on facebook chat.

Mostly I like that subtle change in your stride
and the vengeance in your eyes
when you are angry.
Your iron grip
so painful bringing me down on my knees
leaving me breathless, craving for more.
I think you'll make an extraordinary lover
with exceptionally passionate love making skills
but I will never know...

Is when I trace the purple bruises
and the scarlet scrape marks on my arm,
longing to feel your dominating grip
disarming me one more time...

The thing that makes us intangibly connected, painfully aware and eternally unsatisfied,
each time google asks 'Did you actually mean this  you illiterate oblivious *****?',
or pin interest shows a wedge of black forest cake at midnight,
or facebook goes out of its way to advertise an ex's new relationship
only for linkedin to suggest you congratulate him on the new job.

We continue to see, hear and feel, but we cannot touch and we cannot reach,
so we search for other lost souls  within this virtual abyss,
unable to torrent love, stream joy or download content,
We have now created online forums and communities,
to share and like the pain, solitude and void.

If we lived in a non-judgmental world,
where social norm were a blank slate
free of preconceptions and expectations,
a world in which it was traditional to be liberal,
what would you do?
Would you work this hard or drive fast cars?
Would you read 50 Shades of Grey in the train?
Would you still cry in the rain?
Would you be outgoing or spend more time alone?
Would you laugh at funerals and never mourn?
Would you wear your pyjamas for Sunday mass?
Would you identify yourself with the working class?
Would you use two forks or wear socks with flip flops?
Would you avoid dating jocks?
Would you take up smoking or marry young?
Would you tattoo your face and pierce your tongue?
Would you work as a stripper whilst being a nun?
Would you form a jihad against wars and guns?
Would you become straight, forget how to pray
or wish your first born son were gay?
Would you ever fake an ******
or admit you like it rough?
Would you follow the stars and lucky charms
leaving all life's decisions to luck?
Would you believe in evolution and gravity,
or argue we're heavy people with sticky feet?
Would you avoid salad or order tofu?
Would you try to go up a dress size or two?
Would you give to charity or take up a sport?
Would you sell your house and buy a boat?
Would you order expensive wines or
write poems that did not rhyme?
What would you do?
Perhaps you simply wouldn't have a clue,
for we appear to have forgotten how to be true.
So when ever a Miley comes like a wrecking ball
we unite to share our disbelief and loathe.
As we did to Snowden and Jesus Christ,
we mock and torture and crucify.
The UN, CIA and the Vatican unite,
to teach us how to lead our lives.
For when someone somewhere breaks a norm
that someone somewhere has formed
it has become a universal priority
for the former to be conformed.

Perhaps in this non-judgmental world,
we might decide to start judging each other...

Democracy, freedom, independence and joy
have all done a full circle and stopped tonight
Now to pack that well worn bag one last time
and let go
of all the hopes and dreams
of a little house with a blue door
with icicles hanging off the roof
surrounded by daffodils as the snow melts
predicting long summer evenings in the sun
sipping ice cold beer with those who are dear.
All the friends made memeories gained
will be left behind at the start of this trip
with a one way ticket to which used to be home.
Social norm is a miserable concept
and in this fickle thing called life
the only thing that doesn't change
is apparently my race.
Because God decided to play a cruel trick
and made me brown outside and inside a Brit.
Just to thicken the plot
having been raised with morals
here I am declining
generously convenient marriage proposals
deluded by romance and sacred notions of matrimony
just to get a visa was never going to cut it.
And dear Craig from last night,
you tasted and smelt of honesty and liberation
and your embrace, like a lie in on a lazy Sunday morning
was warm, cosy and comforting
your eyes mirroring a painful understanding
of heartache and no hope of tomorrow
yet yearning to stay in each others arms
as we did on that tiny dark dance floor
even long after the music had ended.
I would have given you my number
if time hadn't failed me
if fate hadn't cheated me.
I died a little more inside watching you leave
even though we had just met
and it was one night
with alcohol running through my veins
as I drank to forget
I remember
that kiss good bye.
You lingered and I can't stop thinking
what if what if what if
what if I had time
could we have been something more
guess we will never know
instead I've got to go
leaving everything behind
except for my well worn suit case
full of crushed dreams and a broken heart
dampen and heavy with tears and fears
time to leave where I belong
and return to where I was mistakenly born.
Time to face the beginning
of the end...

Like depression or exposure to ****,
mid life crisis has permeated every age range,
unless I'm simply deranged
for it's that time of the night
and it's pouring down outside
giant rain drops hitting the glass window
and the roof
ruining the solitude
that I've started to embrace more and more
mainly because it's impossible to ignore
from the moment I wake up
and get back into bed
in between job hunting
comfort eating
procrastinating
facebook stalking
showering
whining
solitude is the one thing that has stayed all the way.
Whilst regretting life choices
doubting every decision
obsessing over Ex's
solitude is relentless
having made friends with unemployment
it has bottled the scent of the soon to expire visa
and rubbed it all over the clothes
in the suitcase
on the floor of the little box room
making everything smell of homelessness
bringing to life a far too familiar nightmare
a déjà vu
of all sixteen times addresses have been changed
in the last four years
but the worst is yet to come
as the next change could well be
to a postcode over 5000 miles away
where peers are getting married
having children
getting promoted
falling in love
whilst my social life
has conveniently been brought to a standstill
and having lost count
of all the Sunday masses missed
it is fair to presume
that all prayers would be dismissed
so what now
I'm only twenty four
with roughly three quarters of life left to go
and the only affirmation that can be made
is the years of solitude ahead

3.00 am, the witching hour,
when people wake up screaming
panic stricken and weeping
praying for a lost soul somewhere
yet completely unaware
that an hour an forty five minutes ago
cupid died by drowning
in a tall glass of something strong
into which a young lass was crying.
Every dawn at this very time
he chokes on ***** or cigarette smoke
straight after posting
a suicide poem she wrote.
As his heart beat slows
eyes close
no one notices no one knows
incidentally another John Doe.
Disturbed by love songs
all night long
rocking back and forth
losing all control
she inevitably gives in
and revives him
only to watch him die again
the next day at 1.15 am

As I stare at you staring back at me
from my desktop background
I begin to realize
that closure is far from found.
If Da Vinci were a graphic designer
you would be his Mona Lisa.
With a smile harder to read
as it barely reach the eyes, you'll beat her.
Before I travelled thirteen hours
to be with you for just five
it somehow didn't
cross my pathetic mind
that there was no we
that you were never mine
and that I've done the ****** math wrong
for the umpteenth time.
You're a fortune cookie
empty inside
I'm blindly superstitious
and cannot stop trying.
It's skepticaly obvious
I'm most definitely just a friend,
what you are though
is simply impossible to apprehend.
Your image is like a paper cut
shallow yet agonizing
lurking in my sub-conscience
painfully reminding
how even after all these years
I'm shamefully prone to deceive
and keep sticking the broken pieces
of my heart back on my sleeve.
Like a nicotine rush at midnight
I crave you, I'm an addict,
but it's dark and cold, and all the shops are closed,
I'm left frustrated and feeling tricked.
However, amidst last evening's drunken frenzy
my hypothesis was proven untrue,
for I do not regret
kissing you...