I was fully prepared
to write a poem
about you leaving
because my mistakes
were too big this time.

What I was not prepared for
was for you to pull me in
and not let go—
both figuratively and literally.

I wasn't prepared
to hear you say you loved me.

And I know that you're probably
still a little upset with me,
but I promise I can find a way
to make it up to you,
cause I can't think
if anybody else
who's more worth it
than you.

(And also, I think,
I need to say thanks,
cause I'm going to bed smiling
instead of in tears,
and writing this poem
is a whole lot nicer
than the one I was prepared to write.)

When you date a
Poet
Author
A person blessed with talent for words

Expect
Dramatic texts
Meaningful talks
And emotions stirred

Be prepared for
Long nights with us reading
Or writing
And crumpled papers on the floor

Don't try to comfort us with
Fake compliments
And "you tried" speeches
Just hold us and tell us to start from scratch

Because when you're in love
With a
Poet or
Author

They will offer you a
Love unfathomable
And continuous
And inconsistent

Because love is
Not perfect
And we will never
Claim to be

Put on that sweater to better cover those red lines
Which you gave yourself
  to get the attention of the world
including that guy
you want people to cry and whine when you die
But the only thing you obliged
Are some pity and sighs
I think u need some help
Not a boy
Just yourself
can fill the empty ******* void that you felt
Of depression and stress
Its only you now to the left with the rest
Your mind will be your savior
Your the new sailer
Jesus cant take your wheel
Especially after you touched it
So you go girl you got what you wanted
Im no longer your main drag
*** of right now i forfeit
This is my white flag
Accept or ignore it



F.C.

"I've never been in love," you said,
one night when I shouldn't
have been talking to you at all.

                 "Yeah, I don't think I have either"
                           was all I could think to say.

  But under the stars
in the place we called ours
        there wasn't anywhere else
             I'd ever have wanted to be.

And I know my pulse quickened
        because I could feel it moving
                   faster
   on the tips of my fingers
        where my hand met yours.

When you looked me in the eyes that night,
                    I hope you could tell
                    I was lying.

Once butterflies
Now nausea
Once faith
Now doubt

I really thought
We could do it again
But I'm always wrong
I'm always the friend

Sometimes I try
to write about you
and I want to add
a line, something like
"and this is the last poem
I'll ever write for you."

But I know I can't ever do that.
You and I both know
I'd never be able
to truthfully say that.
Because if I'm being honest,
I'll always be writing about you.
I'll always be writing to you.
Your first love is the poem
you never ever stop writing.
I'll always be revising that poem,
always adding verses;
and of course it can never be perfect,
but in a way that's why it's beautiful.

So that's what you are to me—
the poem I'll always be writing,
revising,
rearranging,
living.
It'll always start with and come down to you.
The poem I'll carry around with me
in the little notebook I call my heart,
with scribbles in the margins
and notes to myself between stanzas.
You're the poem I'm going to reference
in every single other thing I write.
You're the crumpled piece of paper
pulled out of the back pocket of my memories
whenever anyone asks about the first time.
You're the ink in my pen
as it hits the paper
and you're every word I write with that ink.

And as far as first drafts go…
I'm really happy with what you gave me to work with.