I guess it’s fitting that you’re made of star dust.
Each part of you from a different corner of the world.
I bet the sparkles in your eyes, were once flecks of the sun
and the salt of your lips were at one time part of the sea.
Because your voice is the warmth of a summer day,
Your laugh like thunder
Your touch electricity.
I’m almost sure your mind was once a part of some great poets,
Like F. Scott Fitzgerald
Or Virginia Woolf
And your hands must have belonged to Monet.
Your teeth look like skyscrapers from down here
And the city inside of you is about to swallow me up.
Like the deepest parts of the ocean
Your innermost thoughts are hidden and untouched
Even from me.
Like the bottom of a secret lake.
All I want to do with you is everything.
Because you’re this perfect being that makes everything better.
And I love you.
And somehow, you love me too.

I dive in without checking there's water in
the pool.

I took my time today.
I walked the way I used to walk with you,
not worrying about where the next step took me.
I missed two buses.
I got home half an hour late.
Or early.
It doesn’t matter anymore,
everything is relative.
Next week will be this week.
Yesterday is already tomorrow.
I’ve always heard that time is cruel;
too quick when you want it,
too slow when you don’t.
I’m not really sure what to think anymore,
because it’s been three months,
but I still think about you every day.

I’ve gone through uncountable cups of coffee
over the past few months,
but none of them ever quite taste the same
as the first one I’ve had.
Sometimes not enough cream,
other times too much sugar;
always without you
on the other side of the table.

How easy do you forget what you left there?
When you stream those chemical trails do you think about the girls you tried to write down but couldn't?
I wonder if you find the pieces I left you under bottom drawers and do you sign yourself away next to my names when the door's locked and I'm the only thing left sitting, watching the window for traces of you?
Did I mark you like you did me?
I left my favourite things for you on the off chance
that you will still taste me when you remember pouring sugar into my tea
on Tuesday nights, or white Sunday 4pms.
I haven't breathed as deep as the day I left you.
I want to tell you how I don't wait up for you anymore,
don't listen for Greek around every corner anymore.
There are parts of us stuck beneath the floorboards, the walls wait with baited breath,
and this skin is so volatile I have to walk through myself just to remind me I'm here.
I breathe you out.
Maybe you are still seeing, me seeing you,
in your head.