my nightstand is full of unread books, lavender candles and leather journals.
i like to keep books beside my bed because i would like to read someone else's outlook on life instead of writing about my sorrows.

sing me an aubade
at beginning of aurora
serene and mellifluous
it's like a reverie, a felicity

you soliloquize, so calm
that it could be psithurism
I hear
the beating of your heart,
like the sound of a watch
enwrapped in cotton

a summer's zephyr opens the balcony windows,
so gently
dust particles are dancing
in the morning light
and are slowly falling on the white bedding sheets
do you smell the scent
of our neighbor's citrus trees?
2 hours by car is Venice
and I invite you to stay
in the enchanted and narrow alleys
with me

the vast expanse of constellations i found residing in your windows is both exhilarating and mind boggling
mind boggling in a sense that it just seems impossible to find such wonder through two simple pathways to your soul - if there's that much of everything through your eyes then how much is there in the rest of you?
exhilarating in a sense that there is so much of you that is left to uncover, and i understand that it's impossible to peel through your layers but i'm still gonna try because you are the best thing to ever exist and i want to know as much i can of you before i start to forget

i want to love you as much as you fascinate and confuse me because there is nothing else in the world that i'd rather do
there is no other person that i'd rather adore and there is no other person i'd rather become the center of my universe

I knew a girl who used poetry as a weapon.
Who broke hearts for fun, only to dip her pen in their blood and write lines in the sand.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a shield.
Who thought her words were justified if she dipped them in honey before she spoke.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a blindfold.
Who hid her betrayal behind selfless lines and artful lies.

And she called me her muse and I thought it a compliment when really it was a curse.
Because I knew a girl who only wrote poetry about broken hearts so she let me fall so she could watch me drop and describe the sound of my impact with honey-coated drizzle.

Because it’s my heart that was pen-dipped.
My ears that were darkened by honey-covered lies.
My eyes that were obscured by a blindfold of silk.

And when my blood dried and the sand was used up, she went for another boy.
A broken boy.

One she didn’t have to break to write her twisted lines.

in those distant days, i said i never wanted to puff a single cigarette; i never wanted to put any dangerous substances in my system that would compel me to ask for it over and over again. you might be getting high off them, but the thought of they’d harm me—consume me little by little, gradually, until there’s nothing left with me but addiction and dependency is dreadful to me.

it all changed after you decided to break my heart.

now, i don’t care if i harm myself with cigarettes or any dangerous substances. i’m not afraid. because i survived you. you and your love are more harmful. the apocalyptic moment when we pressed our lips together, you also ****** the soul out of my body, leaving me a little to none of myself; you crept inside of me, savoring my vulnerability—they're even more harmful and addictive and euphoric than cigarettes or any dangerous substances could do to our bodies. yet i still survive, although i'm trembling every now and then with some pieces of you and me left in my grasp.

how could i not take a bite into you?
with a presence like yours, so inviting.
i am in a garden filled with the sweetest fruit,
yet, why is it only you that i'm wanting?
your tainted juice drips down my finger tips,
the taste of guilt on my tongue still remains
and so does the sin that manifests within my soul,
and yet, i bite into you again.

that girl will turn you into poetry
she will write about the way your starry eyes shine so brightly
when talking of the things you're passionate about
she will write about falling in love with a mind more potent than
any drug and laugh like wind-chimes
she will write about the way your voice sounds at 3am, the way your
eyes crinkle when you smile, and the way you look at her when you say "i love you"
that girl will turn you into poetry
she will catch every little thing you do
every tilt of your head, every fidget with the sheets, every nervous laugh, and every shy smile
she'll analyze the meaning behind them and put them on paper because she's fallen in love with the things you didn't even realize you were doing
that girl will turn you into poetry
she will memories the feel of your hand in hers, the shape of your mouth, and the sound of your heart thumping as she lies on your chest
that girl will love you like a poet
so be gentle, for many poets die of a broken heart

the smell before it rains and the taste of that first sip of tea in -20 degrees

the slow untangling of your thoughts with every beat of the drum, the way the wind blows right through you just enough to move you forward and never enough to blow you down

the sound of typing fingers when you know you're onto something good, the feeling of your own, and finally not his, skin

the seasons are changing and baby so are you / six senses are helping you develop into someone new