beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

the leaves squint at me,
while the mountains befriend me.
the guitar strums to the beat of my steps.

Consequence is overrated.
Consequence is unnecessary.

I am content this way.
The echoes of those who begged to leave along with my existence, haunts me.

I outgrew that town.
I outgrew consequence.
I was embroidered to become a part of
this.

I notice the light blonde hairs that gently kiss your arms.
And the way your eyes don't flutter,
how they march.
I notice the way your lips curl so mysteriously, so pure.
And the way you are happy on sun invaded days,
And even more joyous on rain soaked days.
I notice how you embrace your words with care, as if they were made up of silver and gold.
And the way you trip people up with your eyes.
I notice.
I notice everything.

I cut myself on the future
I thought of kissing your picture
I detached myself from
lullabies and sorry eyes
only to realize:

I want to make love to you in November,
just before the empty of December.
Where snow blankets
and suffocating leaf-beds
aren't the only dreams
to fall asleep in our heads.

I could hear your voice trip
as my hands started to drip
around your hips and thighs-
You could tranquilize
with your lips and byes.

You look so sleepy-headed
Many words I have threaded
to weave a dream
desperately
but you prefer my
reality.

Stick around and taste the honey on his cold, stone lips
and trace outlines of every skin cell around the thumbnails he uses to push lovers' pins into the ground.
Stick around and connect the dots on every leaf his messy hair has trapped
while I sip my coffee in the window,
watching the rain pour down.
In the meantime, race the raindrops in hopes for a beam of light, because the clouds never clear in his foggy, misleading, choir-like singing eyes.

I heard your voice on the radio
Each word transmitting
from your lips
You touch me more than you even know
From my neck to your fingertips

To be under your skin
is where I should have been.
From the start I knew
a little bit of everything
except you.
And to know you
is to know everything.