It was like we were wrenched from Morpheus' grasp and shaken, until our eyes adjusted to the harsh light and our bones stopped their clattering. We make like tea bags and steep in hot water, letting the dregs of the past day settle at our feet.

We drag our feet through the quicksand pavement and trudge through the black-tar roads to work. War is rampant in the world and in people's hearts, we see murders on screen and deceit in the streets, we're observers to the horrors of humanity. All we can do is watch with pained eyes.

Our minds are barraged with arguments and advertisements, ethics have been defenestrated, our worries overpopulated, our patience stretched thin and beaten cacophonously. Our consciousness is beaten down with pessimism, our thoughts devoid of hope.

Our souls weep at the state of things, the martyrs gather in drones at St. Peter's gates. We do good only so people will be good to us, we greet each other with half-smiles, and half-truths. At the end of the day we drag home, our consciences heavy with the burden thrown upon us.

But we meet again, we kiss, we embrace, and we join hands and strip ourselves of these mundane garments, we’re a mass of hands and skin and long sighs and worn-out smiles,

and with tired eyes, tired minds, tired souls, we slept.

My mind is a cøffer øf cømført,  
  take what yøu will at yøur lesiure.
    Wørry nøt øf replenishing the reserves.
      My arms are an øpen ørphanage–
        shøuld løve and høpe have passed away,
          find refuge frøm the cøld
            biting winds øf apathy in my arms.
              Sip frøm my pøøls øf patience
                and extinguish the flames øf frustratiøn
                  that grøw deep within yøu.
                    If yøu have guns før hands
                      then secure the safety              
                        and always pøint at my perseverance,
                          never at yøur persøn.
                            When yøu are weak,
                              knøw that my knees will knøck
                                 but I will cøntinually carry yøu
                                   till the end øf yøur days.

Dear Distance,

*******.
I'm writing this to you
at 4:30 in the morning
and because of you,
I'm am currently
115 ******* miles away
from the person
I lie awake missing
every ******* night.
Because of you,
when I get lonely
and a hug is all I need
I'm stuck cuddling
a ******* pillow.

But also, thank you.
For teaching me
how to be patient
and showing me that
I can, in fact,
function alone.
Thank you for
making me grateful
and appreciative,
for taking away
what I have
to show me how much
I really do care.
Because of you,
It means much more
whenever I say
"I miss you."

Without wax,
Someone Whose Heart Aches

*P.S. *******.

a lot of people ask who I write for

and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend

I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl

that makes you write poetry.

it’s to express the endless love

the irretrievable gratitude

and the unconditional happiness I feel.

but it’s also for the broken ones

who desperately want to believe in hope

who have Pandora’s box

wrenched from their hands.

for the crying ones

who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea

overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.

it’s also for the 9-to-5’s

who drink when they come home

for those who are simply fed up

and want an escape from it all.

I write to help heal.

for the people out there

who just need to know someone understands.

I write because it’s 4am and

I’m listening to Keaton Henson

and these raw feelings

won’t leave my brain

and won’t let me sleep

so really,

I write

to save myself.

I've always told you to look at the moon dear, and ******* a kiss when you see it, because chances are, I've done the same for you. I've always found this small comfort in knowing no matter how far fate may drag us apart, we'll always share the same sky.
There are many moons in this solar system we live in, but ours is a special moon. You and I have always looked at the same side of it; I’ll always kiss the same side of the moon as you will, my dear.

My eyes are strained against an LCD,
my fingers mindlessly tapping away.

                                                          ­        [My eyes are on the road,]
                                                          ­        [my fingers intertwined with yours.]

I look up at the clock,
the entire day is behind me now.

                                                           ­       [I look up at my rearview,]
                                                      ­            [the entire city is behind me now]

I lean back in my office seat
and let out a sigh of exasperation.

                                                  ­                [I lean back in the driver's seat]
                                                           ­       [and let out a sigh of content]

The droning sound of the printer
drags with my monotonous heart.

                                                         ­         [The melodic sound of your laughter]
                                                       ­           [lifts my symphonic heart]

I work until the sun drops

                                                               ­   [We drive until the sun rises]

                                                  and then
We drive.
                                                          ­        [I work.]

The weather is really light out; the breeze is cool but these sheets are warm and it's overcast but not cloudy. It's the perfect weather to wear sweatpants and tee shir- no, actually, it's the perfect weather to wear your skin atop mine. The perfect weather to caress your curves under these soft sheets, letting my body warm yours, letting my hands hold yours, letting my eyes drown in yours. It's the perfect weather to coat that lovely face of yours with happy kisses and smiles. It's the perfect weather to talk about how we'll raise Marlye and how big or small our house will be in Bremerton. It's the perfect weather to lie down on your stomach and list the reasons why you make me smile.

*But, in reality, you're not here.
So, it's the perfect weather for me to silently pad downstairs in sweatpants and a hoodie at 3 in the morning, start a *** of coffee, and plunk out lonely melodies on this piano of mine as I wait for my coffee and my heart to warm up. It's the perfect weather for my bones to ache for you, the perfect weather for my lips to still longingly have the lingering taste of you.

It's the perfect weather to miss you.

And you know I'm at a loss for words right now because I'm talking about the ******* weather.

Come as you are,
              not how you ought to be

You, my dear, are made of flesh and bone and hopes and dreams just like the rest of us; you are no automaton, no cyborg. A mere tuning fork has more metal in it than you.

But I’ll still make you sing, my dear, my mouth coaxing soft moaning melodies from your lips. These songs are lovely, lustful little testaments to the intensity of my longing, they echo off your bouts and reverberate about your waist.

Staccato gasps and a gentle crescendo of your moans follow as I bow my tongue along your neck, plucking at your curves and ******* your lengths.

I’m no archer but I see a quiver in front of me as I pull at a string.

My chin piece is the bottom of your *** and together we play a masterpiece, your breath’s ragged cadence accompanying a mezzo-piano scream. We go on like this repeatedly, each dal segno al coda pulling one more riff out of you. Eventually my strokes and your moans harmonize and we crescendo, fortissimo,

bravo.

what does (s)he see in me?

my heart feels like lead

all the color in my life is gone,
but all the cones in my eyes are intact.

I never should have woken up

am I that dispensable?

I can't remember what it felt like
before the darkness came.

That just invalidated all my efforts

I’ll only be a burden

They’re just being polite

Why should I even bother?

I wonder if my family sees
the hurt in my eyes
and elects to ignore it

Remember, dear;
There will always be who I am tonight.

Provided that my demons keep their peace within the cage of my ribs,
and our pools of patience endure their droughts and despair,
I’ll hold you when our bones are brittle and our hair is silver.

And when those days come, and for the thousands of days in between, there will always exist a man inside me who was (at least once) everything and anything you’d wanted him to be.

You will always be the lovely lady of my life, and no matter how fate decides to shape our time together, I will always be ready to hold you in my arms, however weak they may be. I will always listen to whatever may harrow your soul, however hard of hearing I might be at that point. And even when I am blinded by cataracts and carcinogens, I'll always appreciate how you smile with your eyes and how your nose crinkles a little when you laugh, I'll always be able to tell you how lovely you look.

We may be torn apart or we may grow together but regardless of our proximity, I will always be who you once fell in love with, I will always be everything you once needed. And as I have been for you, I will be once again.

"I found so many words
after you left

had we stayed together
we may have become silence"

And some days I wonder if
that silence is something that
I would've looked forward to; things
get awfully loud in the world outside
and I think it might have been comforting
to come home from the cacophony
to a deep, warm silence.

But other days, I'm reminded
of how scared I am of silence.
I think of all of my worst fears and
insecurities reverberating within my skull,
growing louder with every bounce-
no one else can hear it though.
This kind of silence is invisible,
stifling, and self-imposed.

This kind of silence yearns for
affirmations and terms of endearment
that aren't here anymore; they've
grown stale in the quiet between us.

And I think that some day,
I might just want to come home
to something loud;

to someone who will proclaim love
from the tops of mountains, and have
the strength of their words drown out
the self-doubt whispering inside my mind.

Maybe silence isn't what I wanted-

maybe I'm glad you left.

There's an anchor in my chest,
and although it keeps me from drowning in these nightmare sweats,
my ribs are splintered,
my heart bruised from being weighed down so much.

I get a masochistic contentment from it, though.
There's a soft happiness I get from seeing
the small reminders of you that I see throughout my day,
although they inject adrenaline through my veins
and send constrictions through my lungs.

I've stumbled upon the gap where you normally walk
and I've fallen through the space you usually occupy.
I've tried to lean against the mere thought of you
but every time I've crashed against the cruel reality,
against the stinging realization.

I've become lost in these sheets,
trying to find you in the hole of my blankets
that caresses your curves and hugs your dimension.

I wish this anchor of my love hadn't fallen at your neck,
I wish my sentiment hadn't ****** you against a wall and bound you,
and it's not in the way we'd both prefer.

I want to make like paper and fold myself around you and together our bodies can make uncensored and passionate art and I can paint the beautiful canvas that is your body and let my tongue brush your delicate curves and each stroke is a token of lovely innocent lust and together we make a statue made without wax.

Over the past months there have been
so many times where I feel like nothing
more than a remnant, an empty ghost
with no spirit trapped inside the shroud.
So much has been seized from me-
when we walked our separate ways
you took back everything you brought.
Anything that once carried your touch
now feels tainted, a painful reminder
of something that once was and never
will be again. I can’t go to certain cities,
or listen to particular songs, because
the memory I have associated with it
is far too lovely for me to bear right now,
as is any positive thought I have of you.
I can’t even have things that were once
mine that I shared with you. I told you:
everything I have, and everything I am,
is yours. And truly, it is. I am bereft
of all I once had, wandering the halls
of my memories, a beggar, a supplicant.

I had this notion of wanting
to be more like oldself–
not more like myself, because myself
has become too sad and too hurt;
I remember oldself being so much more.
But where does one look for one's oldself?
It's not like I just hanged it out to dry
or hung it up on the wall next to a poster.
No, oldself has been scattered and beaten,
tossed along the path of nostalgia.
Bits of oldself linger among
sketchpads and sneakers, SEGA
and Lego sets and Star Wars.
It's back there with s'mores and scouts
and bonfires and books and
the belief that the big, blue world
was a place where dreams came true.
Oldself thinks that optimism
is the only option, myself makes a
note to self: that matter mostly
isn't true, as a matter of fact.
I can't always see oldself, it's buried
beneath six feet of dirt, gossip and rumors;
there's tons of stress and anxiety weighing
on its chest, dressed in a halcyon suit.
Oldself never used to worry
like myself does so often nowadays
but he also couldn't sing like myself can.
He had a wilder imagination than
myself could ever conceptualize,
yet I've exceeded so many of the dreams
that oldself had for my future self.
I often think to myself: what would
Oldself think if Oldself met myself?
And although I may not have turned out
exactly how Oldself envisioned myself,

I've grown and learned from Oldself
and now I'm proud of myself– a place
that my old self never thought I would be.

I hope you find someone that takes their phone off silent
in the hopes of hearing your calls. I hope they laugh
at all your jokes and can take a couple, as well. I hope they
remind you to eat on your busiest days, and help you
get out of bed on days you feel like you can’t. I hope they listen
to the same music you do and dance with the same fervor you do.
I hope they look for you in a crowded room, at the bottom of a bottle,
at the tops of mountains and in the deepest crevices of their heart.
I hope they kiss you for every second you’ve ever spent doubting
yourself. I hope they memorize your favorite colors and fruits, I hope
they call your mom to check in on her, I hope they get along with
your sisters. I hope they cheer the hardest for your achievements,
and weep the most alongside your sorrows. I hope they remind you
that you are loved, you are lovable, and you deserve to feel loved and
appreciated by those you surround yourself with. I hope they listen to
every story you have to tell, and help you write so many more. I hope
they love your laugh, and revel in how heartfelt and unfiltered it is.

I am a rocking-chair and I creak as I stumble into my bed and slowly pull my blankets atop me. I've spent my fair share of time splintering under the weight of worries and fears, stressing and un-stressing, and now my joints ache and my mind hurts.

A wave of relief floods through my body and I sink into this mattress, spent and worn. My thoughts, scattered as always, begin to settle like my body has.

And then the longing comes.

As I lay down, my initial exhaustion is somewhat sated, but then I turn to my side and find the hole on my bed that's shaped like you. I sigh deeply.

I begin to nod off, my exhaustion slowly taking over my desire for the mundane comfort of your skin.

The blankets move, seemingly of their own accord, and I am jolted awake, only to find you crawling into bed with me. My heart beats relief and a sleepy grin makes its way to my face as I greet you with kisses and caresses. I lay my head upon your heart and hold you close to me.

This, my dear, this is right. This is peace. Our breathing synchronized and and slow. You are beautiful and I am spent.

The weather is really light out; the breeze is cool but these sheets are warm
and it's overcast but not cloudy.
It's the perfect weather to wear sweatpants and tee shir-
no, actually, it's the perfect weather to wear your skin atop mine.
The perfect weather to caress your curves under these soft sheets, letting my body warm yours, letting my hands hold yours, letting my eyes drown in yours.
It's the perfect weather to coat that lovely face of yours with happy kisses and smiles.
It's the perfect weather to talk about how we'll raise Marlye
and how big or small our house will be in Bremerton.
It's the perfect weather to lie down on your stomach
and list the reasons why you make me smile.

I want to be a part of your life
not something overtly dramatic but
like a subtle reminder every day.

I don't want to be a drag,
I don't want you to hate my memory,
Nor do I want to pester you with my permanence.

I don't want to be a scar.

I don't want you to think of me
and then have your stomach drop
and your feelings sink
and your heart cringe.

I want to be

The sunshine on your cheek when you wake up

The smell of freshly baked cookies out of the oven

A wave of nostalgia and warm reminders

A cup of tea and a good read

A comfortable blanket you can get lost in

I want to be a reason you smile. I want to be in your veins and give you hope and I want to change the way you see the world, people, and yourself. I want to give you ideas and...

I want you to be happy.
That's all, really.

If, for every time I long to hold you in my arms, for every instance I wanted to kiss you, for every time my heart started to beat faster for you, for every night I've stayed up wanting you in my bed, for every time you've brought a smile to my face,

If each of these thoughts were flowers, this garden I walk through would be never ending.

I plant these "I love you"s in this earth I walk upon and they take root in the soil of my heart as well and grow with the permanence of a bough that has no intentions of letting anything uproot it's presence on this earth.

These flowers need the sun and I need you.

I listen to a lot of music loudly,
and I mean it in exactly what way;
It's not that I always listen to loud,
electric music that blasts your ears
like fireworks and gunshots firing.
I also listen to music quieter than
the stirring of a mouse, with
intimate notes and subtle crescendos.
Normally, when listening to my music,
I can feel the vibrations throughout
the lengths of my person; every
bass line shaking my vertebrae
and every falsetto ringing in my skull.
But today, I felt something different.
I was playing this one song in the car
and my bones didn't shake,
my hands didn’t tremble.
And it’s not that I didn’t feel it,
it’s really a matter of where;
I felt the music resonate
in the hollow chamber of my chest
where my heart should have been.

This is not a poem, my dear.
This...
this is more than a code comprised of 26 letters, 10 digits, and a few punctuation symbols.
What you are carrying in your hand right now is more than just a few thousand pixels presented on a glass screen, it's more than just a string of words put together in prose.

What is being graced by those lovely hands and gorgeous eyes of yours is a piece of me; this is a tangible piece of my mind, darling. I give this (and many others like it) to you as a gesture of trust and love, but I just as well give this to you with a warning. I apologize if this seems...foreboding (among other things).

Along with my love, I present this piece of me unto you irretrievably. This is no childish box or chance trinket that needs wrapping. This...this is a glass-shelled grenade, darling. But don't worry, I've secured the pin with my heart-strings. This glass is blown from the grit and salt of my tears and sweat, my burning rage fueled the furnace. Splinters of my bones form the shrapnel, and a carved piece of my ever-beating heart fuels the whole mess.
This is raw. This is crude, it's unfiltered; call me Pandora, this is my box, in a way. It holds my hope, that someone will keep this piece of me safe, that someone like you will look past the crudeness and see the sentiment behind it.

This piece of me, I don't ask of you to string it up and wear it upon your breast, I do not ask you to flaunt it and keep it close to you at all times. Lock it up, shut it away, darling. It is not beautiful, neither am I. Feel free to bury it, go ahead and put it away. It is ugly, it is dangerous. You should not caress this piece of me, it is fragile and will not provide any comfort to you. I wish unto you no harm. I ask of you to keep it safe. Protect it from my demons, save it and myself from my nightmares. I apologize for the burden I have placed upon your graceful shoulders, but your inherent strength inspires me and gives me faith. I know I ask too much of you; you have my most sincere apologies.
I've given you everything I am, I have nothing more to give you.
You are perfect, my guardian angel, I am fragile and flawed...
protect me.

You are an ocean

I can look at you for ages and drown in your beauty, and I stare because I don't want to lose precious seconds of being a mere observer to your raw being.

Your beauty is immense and multifaceted, it exists on the surface and pleases the average passerby, but if you were to look deeper, past the ebbs and flows of the waves, there is a hidden beauty that only a few select are allowed to see.

I fell in head first, my dear. And I'd give up my feet and grow some gills to swim in your currents if I could.

First, a declaration: I love you. I truly love you with all of my heart and I need you to know that; I mean that in the truest sense of the word.

Second, a disclaimer: I’m writing this in a generic, public manner and I know that makes this seem cold and impersonal. And there’s truth to that- anyone can find their way to this letter and maybe people will. But I’ve sent this to you in particular, and I hope that conveys at least some authenticity.

Third, an apology. I want you to know that I understand the weight of what I’ve shared with you. I know that just because you’re a kind and compassionate person, you understand the exigence of my situation and maybe you’re worried, maybe you’re scared, or just plain confused. And after telling you, I can’t ever un-say it. I can’t take those words back, I’ve pushed this irretrievable, heavy truth upon you and I’m truly sorry. It burns at my own chest sometimes and acts as a void in others.

Fourth, an elaboration: I didn’t tell you with the intention of having you fix me or attend to my problems. I don’t want you to do that, I would never ask that of you. Although I understand where that sentiment comes from, I don’t want you to feel obligated to try and think of solutions. Don’t do that to yourself.

And finally, a request: just due to the nature of what this is, I continually feel like a burden. I feel like I’m a weight on everyone else’s chest that’s holding them back, or a sore subject that people hesitate to acknowledge. Sometimes I go days where my voice feels heavy because I haven’t spoken to anyone. There are days where I long comfort and company and others where I seek out solitude. I won’t always reach out and I often won't ask you to do so because I don’t want it to be a chore- I don’t want to be a calendar reminder in your phone. I just ask that you be patient with me.

Without wax,
Someone Who Told You His Darkest,
Most Worrisome Secret.

P.S. I know how bad things can be and where I am in relation to them; I know what to do in case it becomes too much. I truly don't mean to worry you.

I stand before you,
a man without wax.

Not perfect in any way, however.
I am pockmarked and scarred.

My sculptor goes by many names,
Pain is one, Experience another.

He has chiseled my hopes
But not my body.

I am a mangled rock at your feet,
weak and vulnerable.

I am no work of art,
Although your beauty is timeless.

I am made of stone,
Yet my heart beats on for you.

I stand before you,
a man without wax.

I am flawed and imperfect,
I do not have much to offer.

But everything I have,
Everything that I am, is yours.

Without wax.

You said that you wanted to explore our newfound
independence and experience the world around you.
We parted ways- you choosing a path that you knew
you’d take, while I was left to shovel my own path out
of the wilderness that now surrounded me. I’ve been
stumbling around for months now, and I have the cuts
and bruises to show for it; I am spent and at the last
reserves of patience and hope. My heart feels like a broken
compass and I’m not sure that I ought to be following it,
but I sure as hell don’t know my way out of this mess.

I want to take you to an art museum,
but I'll spend the entire time looking
at you because you'll be the most
breathtaking thing in the room.

Once we're there I'll try and memorize
every curve and every line of your face
as if I were a sculptor and I was assigned
the lofty task of immortalizing your beauty.

I'll come home and dream about you-
your profile engrained into my memory,
and the image of your smile soft
and sweet enough to banish my nightmares.

I want to take you to an art museum,
and I want to hold your hand the whole time,
feeling your reaction to each piece before us
and letting it resonate within me.

Pick a painting that intrigues you and
we'll stand in front of it; I want to know
what about this art compels you
so that I may learn to do the same.  

We'll stand quietly, together, side by side,
because this is a space where we can
share our silence- I want to be guided
only by the pull of your hands and eyes.

I want to take you to an art museum
because once we walk outside together,
I'll have fallen in love with you
and what more could I possibly want?

I have missed you terribly, in a way that I never
thought I would have to endure. There have
been nights where I wished that I could pack
everything around me that reminded me of you,
and that presented me with two main problems:

First, I would be surrounded by emptiness because
I see you in everything and anything around me,
and I would drive myself to the point of collapse
trying to pack the world away and out of sight

Second, I know that I would seek you out
in the space around me, knowing that this void
at least feels better than the silence on your end.

I ache. I hurt in my heart and my mind
and in my body all over. I lay in bed for
hours at a time and sometimes moving
feels like the most daunting thing.
I exercise some days but I’m not sure
if I’m trying to keep my body healthy
or if I’m attempting to punish myself.
I’ll collapse on the floor, muscles ablaze
with the effort of lifting my spirits-
but I think my hands hurt the most because
they keep writing to someone who isn’t here.