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.

There's a certain time
that's subjective to everyone
but remains universal in principle.
It is the point where
you've checked all your emails,
replied to all your messages,
and all your notifications are read.
You've scrolled down your timeline
to a point you've already seen before
and there doesn't seem to be
anything new in the once-infinite
bounds of the Internet.
And then, time stops.
The world around you grows still,
your room is dark, unaccustomed
to the lack of light from your phone.
You can almost hear the quiet
enveloping the room.
Sleep still evades you, and
the very sound of your blankets rustling
wakes you further still.
Your thoughts wander about
as the sky begins to grow brighter,
and your eyelids become heavier.
You drift off to sleep,
and time fast-forwards in your slumber
to make up for the little while
it stopped for you.

this is just
a small piece
dedicated to
the sweetest stranger
I've ever met online
(not that I make a habit
of making new friends
on the internet).
Thank you for
always giving me
kind words
and warm wishes
and appreciating
the love that
I have to give.

I don't understand why
people hesitate
to compliment others.

Have we all not had those days
where we really felt like
all we needed was some appreciation?
Those days where our efforts
were nothing but invalidated and dismissed?

The universe has presented itself to you
in an ethereal way that is unique to you and solely you.
Let the cosmos influence and inspire you
and let your words and your work elate and embolden others.
Admit your awe and affection and maybe
you can be that one piece of inspiration
that someone else needs that day.

I just wanted to say
that I'll always
love you infinitely more
than you could ever hate yourself.
So if you ever need a reminder
of all the reasons you could be loved,
come into my arms and
let my hands dance down your back,
I'll tell you different ways I love you
with every vertebra I touch

When every other thing in your life has shattered
and you are a shell of a person and all you do
is call me at an ungodly hour to be alone,
you don’t have to say hello. You don’t have to say
anything. Let your sadness speak its lengths
through the silence that permeates through our phones.
I’ll stay on until you fall asleep, or I’ll come to your place
and hold you until you find your breath again.
I’ll wipe away the tears for you, but I won’t tell you
not to cry. Sometimes crying is the only thing we can do.

When you’re tired, just look at me and
give me one of those exhausted smiles we share;
I’ll carry you home and undress you.
I’ll fold your clothes to the side, tuck you into the covers,
and read to you while caressing your hair.
Don’t worry about snoring or moving about
while you sleep; just get your rest.

When you’re furious and all the world has done is
disappoint you, I’ll hang from a doorway and be
your punching bag. Don’t be gentle with me.
Yell until your voice splinters and you punch your knuckles raw
and stomp until your knees give out from under you.
I’ll lay you down and ice your hands and give you tea
for your throat. I’ll hold you as the rage turns into
anguish and frustration and all you can do is tremble.

And even when my actions are futile and
all my words do is come crashing about your ears,
I promise that I will at least try for you.

All your wounds heal both inside and out.
I will always be here to soothe the burns.
I will always listen to your rants and ramblings.
I will always have a hand for you to hold.
I will always love you; everything that I have
and everything that I am, all that that I ever will be,
is yours.

Always.

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 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.

I know you don't do well in the cold or in the rain;
You scramble around trying to save your hair
and you jabber nonsensically in the cutest way,
you shiver and you mumble and your hands and nose go cold.

But that's just a temporary, mundane blemish
on the beautiful temple that is your body,
one that a jacket can guard from, or a towel can wipe off.

But your heart, your fortress of a heart, is what I worry about.
I know it hurts too, I know all too well that it does.
I know that sometimes, you sit in a sea of blankets and warmth,
but your heart still aches with a horrible chill.
I know that although you may be sheltered,
it sometimes feels like your heart is stranded in a downpour
and your fortress cracks sometimes.

I don't know how to tell you or show you that
I will stand in a hurricane to hold an umbrella over your heart,
I will build you a home and a hearth to warm your bones,
when all you feel is broken and numb
I will hold you and kiss you until
all of your beautiful puzzle pieces are put back together.  

So don't mind the rain, sweetheart.
I'll always be
an umbrella for your heart.

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 haven’t been playing my guitar as of late
and it’s not because I’ve lost interest- I still
love the same musicians I did before and I’d love
nothing more to be able to play like them.
I’ve picked it up a couple times in the past
three months and I’ve found that even though
I know exactly what chords to play and where
all the notes are that once made me happy,
it ends up sounding off and halfhearted;
that happens when you don’t press down
between the frets hard enough.

I didn’t realize that I was so afraid
of holding onto something since you left

October 18th, 1995. I was born a little more than a month early; Ma always says it’s because I’d thought of a good joke and couldn’t wait to share it with everyone. Dad says it was because I was too hungry.

Yes, my name is Harsh but I promise I’m a nice enough person. Harsh means happiness in Sanskrit and I’ve always worn that name tag proudly. I use the username "harshhappens" as an alternative to the unfortunate saying "**** happens." Happiness happens, too.

I’ve got my father’s temperament and my mother’s smile, but I love my mother’s temperament and my father’s smile wouldn’t fit my face. I look at the two of them and see a patched, two-tone mirror of myself. I’m scared of what I am taking from them and what I’m not.

My childhood was Pokemon and Legos, chocolate chip pancakes and milk, hugs from my grandparents and bedtime stories with mom. Oh, how I loved to read. If books were grape juice, I was an alcoholic.

I’ve got my share of adolescent acne, the bags under my eyes hold the weights of my sins and I’ve already got smile crinkles about my plain, dark eyes. My hair is usually combed to a side and turns into a beard as you trace down my sideburns. I dress like a trendy 80-year-old psychology professor sometimes, other times I dress like a wannabe-tumblr-model. Oh well.

My favorite colors are maroon and grey. I’m also colorblind. Go figure.

I’m going to school to help people and hopefully save them from themselves. Problems of the mind are at the root of our existence, and will continue to terrorize victims no matter how much money they earn, no matter how much *** they have, no matter how lovely their spouses are, no matter how big their houses are. When people go to sleep at night, they deserve to have peace of mind. I’d like to help with that. I know too many people who can't take it. I knew too many people who couldn't take it. No one deserves to go through that alone.

I’m a five-foot-ten-inch sculpture made without wax. If I’m nothing to you I’ll at least be genuine. I’m pockmarked and scarred in my own ways.

Music runs through my veins, along with endorphins and an appalling lack of iron. What I listen to can be like honey and sometimes it’s a hurricane. I’ve shed tears to music, it’s been a part of me for ages.

I don’t sleep very well.

I am an introvert in the most proper sense of the term. Sometimes I get oversensitive, and being with too many people or around certain people can get very overwhelming and intense, I tend to shut down in these instances. Just make eye contact with me and I’ll open up to you, I promise. I don’t like parties. I’d much rather sip a mug of coffee in my basement with a canvas in front of me and paint all down my jeans, or sit by my window and write my heart away. I’d rather take a long drive with the love of my life or take her to dinner. I don’t take pride in this solitude, I hate it most of the time. I wish I enjoyed myself at parties.

I’m scared of heights and of knives in the wrong hands. I’m also terrified of the dark.

I’m a hopeful romantic, it’ll take a lot for you to take hope away from me. I’ve been blessed with a girlfriend that is genuinely the best thing to ever happen to me. She’s the kind of girl that you work hard for but you know she’s **** worth it. She’s the kind of girl that teaches you things both about the world outside your bedroom and about the person inside your heart. She’s the kind of girl that makes you write poetry. I am plenty ******* up in my own way, but no one else can ever love the way I do; let that be a vice or virtue.

You could probably buy my soul off me for some chocolate. Or some nice lobster. Or mashed potatoes. I'm just a very hungry person.

It’s too late for my parent’s praise to mean anything to me, I needed it earlier. I live with a constant doubt that you can call self-consciousness or self-doubt. You can quote Freud all you want. I need constant reassurance that I’m worth anything to anyone and everyone and I look for it desperately. Sometimes when I get really bad I just want to hear a reason why I’m worth listening to. I am constantly trying to convince myself that I’m good enough. It’s frustrating for both me and my loved ones. I’m 150 pounds of waiting for someone to tell me that I try hard enough and that I’m all they need.

The best compliment anyone has ever given me was from my girlfriend. She said “I love your mind.”

I write because of my girlfriend. She woke up this primordial part of me that really just likes to put a pen to paper.

So, hi there. I’m Harsh. Nice to meet you.

“Listen honey, I don’t think
you’ll be able to support yourself
with this art stuff.”

“I’m just not sure
how much money you’ll make
if you start your own business.”

"Are you really sure
you’ll be able to provide
on a teacher’s salary?”

“Is that really what
you want to be doing
for the rest of your life?”

Why does everyone want
to be financially wealthy
but emotionally bankrupt?

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.

Listen.

Let’s just strip down to the skin and warm each other up under these covers. I want to lay down atop you and let my head rest on your waist, snug between those lovely hips of yours, just above your ***. I want my hands to waltz around your thighs and listen to your gentle breathing synchronize with mine. I want to feel you giving in to this moment, I want to feel your body let go and your muscles unclench.

I want it to be completely quiet around us, not the dead kind of silence, the kind that’s comforting and warm. We don’t need words, our touch conveys what our hearts beat for.

Don’t think.

I don’t want you thinking about what’s happening tomorrow, what time the game is on, don’t think about what’s for dinner. Don’t think about that argument we had last week that still sits in your heart. Let it go dear, just for now. Don’t think.

Run your hands through my hair and think of all the memories we’ve made since the last time I cut it. Caress my face and look into my eyes, darling.

Now close yours. Close your eyes and open yourself up to me. I want to take my time in taking you in. I want to spend eternities on your lips, darling. I want to cup your face in these hands of mine and kiss you; I don’t want that kiss to lead to anything, it doesn’t need to. I want it to convince you of my undying love for you. Drink in the right-now of this moment, of me. I want to sit back and admire every inch of you, my dear, from your flowing tresses down to your toes, and everything in between. I want my hands to run down your valleys and hills and let my lips paint your landscape.

I want you to smile at me from under my touch and let out a laugh as I cover your face with happy kisses. Not the kind of laugh you’d give someone telling a joke, not the kind of laugh you force when someone says something mean. This is my laugh, you’ve saved it just for me, it’s sweet and soft and vulnerable and that’s okay because that’s how we feel right now.

I want to roll you over and let your body lay atop mine and simply hold you, caressing your every curve and warming your heart and your soul.

And then I want to do it again the next day, and every day afterwards until our bones are brittle and our days are at an end.

If you thought of

all the little things

that caught your

undivided attention

over the years,

the things you covet

and cherish and protect,

those that you value

and appreciate,

every little thing

that you have ever

come to love,

if you thought of these

and I asked you

to compile a list of them,

how far down

would you have to go

before

you ever

named


*yourself?

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.]

Anyone walking by me
would probably size me up,
give a fleeting glance
over what I had spread out
on the table in front of me
and think to themselves
“Looks like his man is just
eating away his sorrows."
But sometimes, no matter
how much I fit in my stomach,
I still feel empty inside.

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 am greedy, I am covetous, I am insatiable
in the way I want all there is to have about you,
and I grasp at it with earnest hands.
Yes, I do want to know all your fears and dreams,
and of course I want to know things like
whether or not you like your eggs over-easy.
But I want to know all of the things about you
that have made you the enthralling individual you are:
each of the things that make you cry,
anything and everything that has made you smile,
all of the reasons you have scars and blemishes.
I want to know the hex code for that perfect shade
of blue in the sky that brings you peace, and
tattoo it onto my skin so that I would never forget.
I want to learn everything there is to know about you
and spend the rest of my life trying to memorize it.

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.

I have a lot of pent-up fear;
many things really do terrify me.

I’ve never really been comfortable in the dark,
my imagination has never granted me that luxury.
Phantasms from almost 15 years ago follow me in the shadows.

I’ve always enjoyed looking out at a cityscape
from the top of a tower or building
but I’ve never let go of the railing.
I haven’t let myself come close to the edge,
my back against the wall.
I’m too scared of falling.

I’ve been harrowed by many things,
but one demon reigns over them all.

I’m really scared of disenchantment.

I’m scared that the very reasons that I was initially loved for
will eventually become the reasons I am detestable.

I’m scared my determination and perseverance
will turn into me being stubborn and close-minded.
I’m scared that my sweet thoughts and caring nature
will transform into me being clingy and suffocating.

I’m afraid that all the reasons you love me
will turn into the reasons why you regret.

I'm not as religious
as my mom thinks I am.
She teaches other kids
about our shared faith
every Sunday, with me in tow.
It's not that I don't believe
in the gods that she does.
God is supposed to
guide you and inspire you,
and teach, protect, and love you.
So I implore you:
find God in the halls of an art gallery
or in the crashing waves at the beach.
Find God at the bottom of a bottle
or on the top of a skyscraper,
the middle of a forest,
in the words of scholars
or in the cells of life itself.
Call it what you want,
but find God
in everyone
and everything.

There was this one time

you came to my house,

and I accidentally fell asleep,

and I remember you

putting a blanket on top of me

and kissing my forehead

and I remember

in that one moment,

I knew.

You are my forever,

and I mean that in the way

that not only are you my sunshine,

but also the warm feeling in my heart.

You are every kiss that's been

on my unworthy lips,

you are the subject of

every pang of longing

that I have ever felt.

You are my nicotine, my line,

my whiskey, my fix.

You are every moan at 2am,

all of my fantasies and none of my nightmares.

You wrap bandages

Around my broken bones

and my shattered soul.

You are my ever-lasting muse,

you are my one and only.

You are my favorite and my everything,

But "forever" doesn't seem to be enough.

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 roar with a bravado
that echoes throughout
the deepest caverns
of brave souls

yet with every time
there lies a risk
of my own reverberations
shattering my heart

I am fragile glass
fashioned into
the fearsome form
of a lion

I have been chiseled at by
Father Time and Mother Earth,
carved away by my pains
and my worries.

I am no façade;
there is nothing ornate
about me designed to
hide something heinous

I can shatter
just as easily
as my mother’s
prized china set

But I roar on
even as I chip away;
my joints creaking
and my body scorched.

Do not mistake my
scratches and cracks
for weakness,
I have demons of my own.

I walk this ground
with the hope
that my roars,
in spite of my fragility,

will instill a sense of hope
into all of you
with glass hearts
such as mine.

I was driving through Washington yesterday,
we started our trip in Renton and made our way
down to Moses Lake; and in the process,
we had to pass through the Cascades on our way there.
As we drove, I watched as the exits flew past:
Newcastle, Wenatchee, Snoqualmie, Ellensburg,
and as we sped past each of these, Mt. Rainier
loomed in the distance; her snow-capped peak
standing tall and piercing through clouds,
as the winding road passed through hills and valleys.
As I gazed upon the jagged sheetrock
towering all around me, I could not help but feel small.
We've been told our whole lives just how big the world is
and how much bigger the universe is in comparison
But I've always had a hard time conceptualizing
how infinitesimal and insignificant my existence is.
So to be surrounded by thousands upon thousands
of rock and stone that have withstood
floods and storms and winds for millennia
and still stand strong, well into the stratosphere,
is nothing less than humbling.

I’m awfully homesick, but

people always ask me the wrong questions.

It’s always
“Where is home for you?
Where do you go?”

The thing is,

“home”

isn’t a “where” question to me.

There is no mere
longitude and latitude
that can locate home for me,
my home is not cemented into the earth.

Home is a “who” question.

Who is home for you?

Where there ought to be brick and mortar there are bones,
where there should be couches and beds to rest on
there are arms open to embrace me.

I find home in no establishment of carpets and china cabinets,
I find comfort and solace in a person.

So, my dear,

you

are home for me.

And I’m homesick.

I’m an addict

and

it’s all your fault.

There’s
a comfort
that your skin carries

it’s...
overwhelming.

It’s an aphrodisiac, it’s an anesthetic.

I’m addicted to your touch

I’m intoxicated by your embrace

The side effects?

I feel a shuddering in my bones,
my every muscle relaxing,
almost collapsing.

My breath slows to a light drag,
my thoughts become just as soft as your lovely skin.
My every worry is drawn away,
anxiety flows out of my veins.

This is symbiosis;
I release my emotional toxins
and you bestow upon me this ethereal comfort.

Laying between your legs,
my head caressed by your thighs,
my head above your ***,
and my arms wrapped about your gorgeous form,
I get my fix.

I’m an addict, my dear,

just

please don’t send me away.

If I finally lost myself,
and the pieces of my mind and soul
were as scattered as my thoughts,
would you find them for me
and help piece me back together?

If these nightmares finally come true,
and my fears and my worries
begin ripping me apart at my seams,
would you fight them off
and stitch together my heart?

If I believed what I saw in the mirror
and what my mind was whispering in my ear, and began my slow descent into the abyss of self loathing,
Would you tell me how you love me?

Your words of comfort and consolation are the remedy to the sickness of my mind, an antidote to these poisonous thoughts. I wish they were a vaccine but my mind requires the occasional reassurance.

I regret these thoughts and the weight they share in both our hearts, I don't wish to impose this noxious state of mind upon you. But even when my mind is burning,

even when I wake, gasping, in the middle of the night, when Pandora's Box is wrenched from my hands and forced open, and Hope flies out,

I swear. I swear that I'll love you. I'll love you with my rough hands, with these tired eyes. I'll love you with every last shred of my being, even in the deepest pit of self-hate.

Because you're the bottom of that pit. You don't let me fall deeper into my hate. You lift me up and you give me hope. You give me a reason to smile again.

When my life flashes before my eyes,  it's a boring movie for a while, but then your image comes into the frame and everything becomes brighter and livelier.

I love you in the most irretrievable and unconditional way. I've signed off my soul and heart off to you, I have your name and your smile branded into my brain.

Everything I have and everything I am, everything I will ever be and that I will ever have, is yours. I surrender myself entirely to you, a flawed being with good intentions.

I would lay upon the very ground you walk on and be your bridge when all of them have burned down. I would carry you on my back when your legs give out from underneath you.

I would swim across oceans and fight currents to pull you closer to me, I would take a blade or a bullet or both, to prevent any harm from coming to you.

I know it may seem overwhelming to you my dear but I won't apologize for the way I've fallen for you. I'm in love with you, and there's no use in denying the truth.

So for as long as you choose to deal with my thoughts and my fears, I promise to love you and listen to you and kiss you with all of my heart and every bit of me I can.

Brake, turn turn turn STOP.
Shift the gear from Drive to Neutral to Reverse to Park.
Switch off the lights, 3, 2, 1. Turn the key and pull it out.
Let go of the brakes. Move the seat back a couple notches. Lean it back a bit. Exhale.

It's 5:36 and I haven't slept all night and I should've but I regret nothing. My hoodie smells like you, I bring it closer to my face. Your scent envelops me, embraces me, kisses me lightly. I wish it was your hair that was wrapped gently around my hand, not my hoodie string. I wish it was your body I was holding close to me, not the cold air.

Sigh. Shift legs around. Stretch arms out. Rub eyes. Look out the window.

I wish I could hold you and kiss you as the sun comes up. We've ended days together often, but we have yet to witness a sunrise. I wish you were here to tell me what colors were where in the sky. I wish I could point out the fading constellations and tell you the stories behind them, while adding on to our own.

Sigh again. Straighten seat, move it up a couple notches. Open the door, check pocket for keys, lock the door.  Lean against it now. Sigh.

I'm thinking of my bed. it's cold, lonely, and it has an appalling lack of you in it. Your body isn't there to warm my bones. You're not there to hold and caress. We rested, naked in thought and partially in clothes.

Sigh once more. Close the door. Keys and hands in pockets. Walk up to the door, unlock it. Wipe feet on the mat. Shut it ever so softly (you can't be waking up Mum). Take off shoes. Sit on the stairs.

It's cold outside and in my bed and again, my bones are frigid. It's Sunday morning and I've a long day ahead of me. I've been up almost 24 hours but I can't seem to sleep: I'm going through withdrawal now, the ecstasy that is your touch now an hour old. I miss you.

Sigh for the last time. Get up, stretch out a bit, get off the stairs.*

I shuffle off towards the kitchen and make myself some coffee. Strong, bold, and sharp. I wish it was your lips that I tasted at 6:43, accentuating my senses and jolting me awake.

Mug in the sink and sugar in the cupboard, milk and cream in the fridge. Up the stairs, right to the bathroom. Strip. Shower on.

The water runs down me and I wish once again that it was your body pressed up against me. Your ******* against my chest, the curve of your hips against my waist. Hands roaming, hearts beating, lips meeting.

Shower off. Drip drop blip blop. Dry off and dress.

**It's 7:30 and my day has started, but my longing for you has yet to end.

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.

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.

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.

Dear boss/ employer/ professor/ supervisor/authoritative figure,

I am writing to you to inform you that I will be unable to attend whatever mandatory engagement I had previously agreed to appear at. I do apologize for the inconvenience this may cause, but I do have my reasons. I won’t be able to come in today because:

☐ I had a nightmare where I was abandoned and I woke up in a sweat and I wasn’t sure whether or not I was still dreaming or not.

☐ With these clouds, the sun doesn’t show until somewhere around 8am and it’s sometime around 4am and the darkness just doesn’t seem to end, whether it be outside my room or inside my thoughts.

☐ I passed a park on my way and as I sat I found a small happiness in watching nature and young joy mingle in a simple way and I couldn’t bear to take myself away from it.

☐ I passed a lady who reminded me of a past love and the next second I was convinced that I would never, ever be loved again.

☐ For the first time I actually came to the conclusion that I will never accomplish as much as I have ever wanted to

☐ I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror

☐ I realized that Freud was right about some things

☐ I accidentally listened to Keaton Henson

I've moved ten times
within four states
in the first eleven years of my life.
I've said good-bye to
best friends and
influential teachers,
favorite spots to read and
a few great ice cream shops.
Initially I always regretted
having to leave behind comforts
but then I realized
there are so many better things
to say good-bye to.
When you move, when you start anew,
say good-bye to all the ****** things.
Say farewell to all the times
that you felt lost,
leave behind all of the
old bruises and scars
(although it is a good idea
to remember and learn from them,
it's better they stay in the past)
Bid "adieu" to every instance
you felt less than whole.
Rid yourself of these unnecessary
weights on your chest
and move on,
taking a new breath as you go.