The thing about poetry,
Is I don't know if the ink
Will be my medicine,
Or if it's the poison
Inside my veins that
Will slowly destroy me.

"Was he a good kisser?"

I couldn't say.

I know they were the best kisses of my life.
And I'm not just talking past tense.
It will never be better.
It will never be him again.

I can say he tore my heart out every time he left me.
I can say he ****** it back in every time he returned, reminding me what it was like to feel so deeply.
I can say when my knee grazed his I could feel electricity shooting up my body.
I can say he was the greatest love my life will ever have.

I have no idea if he was a good kisser.
It didn't really matter.
He was a good person.
He was the best person I've ever met.
He is funny and smart and witty and forgiving and caring and adventurous and handsome and FUN.

When I kissed him I felt dizzy and ecstatic and lucky and beautiful and LOVED.
I didn't have any room to notice how his lips moved.

He asks me,

"What do you hate about yourself?"

Suddenly, I am silent.


What do I hate?





What don't I hate?

- t.s.