If only your few freckles were the few stars I can see outside my city window.

If only that crescent moon was your mischievous wink, or sly smile.

If only I could jump out of my window and hop upon the sky scrapers, higher and higher and rest upon that crescent, rest upon thine shut eye, thy lips.

If only this window, your glasses were gone. I could leap and show you how much I love you. I could show you how high and fast I would jump over the CN Tower and fall again just for you and kiss your freckles on my descent.

Just for you. Just for you.

There are days
Where I write
About the feelings that fade
About the discoveries that I've made

The times I've dwelled for far too long
On empty souls
That pass by me

I've pounded at this mighty brick wall for quite a while
With my fists
Hoping it would budge
My knuckles are busted
My chest burns
Sweat trickles down my chin
And still,
The wall stands tall
Proud, and stubborn
Not likely to fall

There are days
Where I write
Just to put my mind at ease

There are days
Where I write
Outside in the breeze

There are days
Where I write
That
The wall
Falls to my feet
Crumbling much like me

I don’t pretend to know what love is for everyone,
but I can tell you what it is for me;
love is knowing all about someone,
and still wanting to be with them more than any other person.
Love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself,
including the things you might be ashamed of.
Love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone,
but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you.

I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, from the inside out.

But they're worth the fire, because you look at them like

it hurts not to.



You won't tell me what's inside, so I take guesses.

One box for memories - the big one, with the heavy bolt.

One box for lost things (dog collars, wooden whistles,

A sky full of stars). Things you don't find when you're looking.



I'm made of broken gazes, an anvil and a glass basket.

I'm made of burning houses, and the way I lock myself

from the inside out (and I never wanted to be boxes,

but I can't help that they fit so well).



Won't you look for keys? Tear your eyes from the corner

where the heavy bolt sits, smiling at you with buckled lips.

Won't you look for keys? Stare me down, acid rain that

burns up glass and makes stars shudder (smoke and fire).



I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, and I wish they were cardboard

and flammable, like you're not, and I can't be (I'm locked

glass, I'm already lit, inside out inside out inside out).



One box for treasures (I can't fit in that one).

One box for memories, without any more room.

One box for lost things, and I could move, but my skin

against stars would clatter and melt (smoke and fire).