The thing I want most
Is not for you to love me
Although I do
But for you to learn
To love yourself

As a writer
You are assumed to be
Good with words
Yet I spend a vast portion of time
Saying exactly the wrong thing
Or biting my tongue altogether
I hope to tell you one day
What you mean to me
Instead of just writing it out
In the pages in my mind

I have known one hundred humans
For every year I have lived
With whom I cannot speak freely
But I commune wonderfully with
The trees
The rain
The stars
They expect nothing of me
I expect nothing of myself
In their presence

I don't believe in soul mates
What I do believe in
Is people that connect
On some deeper level
Immediately upon acquaintance
And not meaning you agree
On where to eat for dinner
But the connection where your heart
Seems to slip out
Of your rib cage
Because it's found a home
Outside of your chest.