I'm trying to muster up the words to say to you,
the words that could make or break everything we've built.
The words are fighting to cross my lips.
Two years we've been in this cycle,
falling in and out of one another.
A connection that has refused to die,
surviving one another's heartaches like an old friend.
It never mattered how long it was between conversations.
We always picked up right where we left,
only each time,
a little bit older.
This time though, I fell
a little bit deeper.
I can feel your sigh through the speaker of my phone,
feel your lips part as you struggle for words.
I try to keep my eyes dry as my nerves raise,
breaths deepen.
My lips are dry.
Confessions like this are meant to be personal;
confessions like this are meant to be said face to face.
Massapequa and Mukwonago do not face each other.
They don't so much as touch,
which is what makes this so tough.
Your stunning brown eyes that smile more than your lips aren't what stares back at me when I look at your name on my screen.
Only the text.
Only the arial font, black against the blue speech bubbles.
To know what it would feel like to say these words to your face would be
knowing how to make this work.
But time and money are not on our side.

When you told me you loved me,
you told me it was different.
You told me you tell everyone you love them but it's empty.
I asked how I was different,
and all you told me is the first thought you'd have should
we ever meet
would be to kiss me.
You told me the first thing you'd do
would be to ensure we were connected more than ever:
lips
to
**lips.

Your creativity is showing me a spectrum of colors I myself had never seen,
and though overwhelming,
it's mesmerizing all the same.
The shades of your voice are enough to get me lost in the art,
the cool and warm tones of your words leave me wondering just what season it is.
Similar to the Wisconsin weather I endure daily,
so warm and embracing one moment,
nearly as cold as the deadest of winter the next.
You told me your worry about yourself because of how your mind works.
That over the last two years,
it has not mattered who we've seen,
what we've endured,
we always come back to this.
And can I just say that
I never thought I'd be in this kind of relationship.
Late night phone calls and
distanced "I love yous"
followed by confessions I fear I'll never admit once the line goes dead.
We always joked we'd marry when we were younger,
but the reality of it is becoming realer than I'd ever imagined.
Through it all, I just want you to know that
I wouldn't mind getting lost in your voice one day.
The spectrum you show me,
almost as vast as the space between you and I.
And yes, I really have thought about this-
because I consider you my best friend
And that's something no amount of distance will change.

H** esitance overcame me the moment I recognized the feelings.
E ncountering them jogged my memory of what it was like; love.
A lthough the nerves in my body are zipping around, electric,
L etting this happen feels like the most natural thing I can do.
I 'm going to. For reasons I cannot place, there is little to
N o fear in my chest at the thought of you, as you feel like a
G ift. One I've waited far, far too long to accept.

It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. But I can't help but remember you showing me The Wonder Years and I don't think of you when I listen to them, but I will admit you still come to mind when I listen to Aaron West. It's bittersweet, like grapefruit. Both ended up my coping mechanism.
You left when I had the most faith in you I would ever have and it's not that I'm not over you. I'm not over what you did. I fear putting that much of my faith into someone again would be like handing them a loaded gun with a faulty trigger, as cliche as that is, and praying they don't shoot. I fear it wouldn't matter whether they try to shoot or not. I fear it'll happen when they don't mean for it. I'm afraid to love.
I don't hate you, but by no means do I love you, I just hope you're happy and you don't think about me when you look around that apartment, because I know I helped you move in-- I was there when you brought in your couch, bed, everything on that road. I stopped thinking about you every time I stepped into my room. I hope you did the same.
I hope she's happy, too. The girl you're with now. You did everything you could to hide the fact it was /her/ of all girls you ended up with, but it wasn't in my control that my friends told me. I'm happy you two are together-- you always talked about your connection anyway. I knew it had full potential, I just always hoped it wouldn't.
I've picked up bad habits, but haven't we all? I hope Ezra happens for you, and I hope I didn't ruin the name. I hope she treats you right.
It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. I just wish things didn't end the way they did. And I'm sorry.

When fireworks implode above us,
I understand why people say
"When I kiss you, I feel fireworks."

At first, it's like sparklers.
Small, short, but entertaining enough
to make you want to try again.

Then it gets up to firecrackers.
They get you heated, they make you
wanna throw a party.

Then they're fireworks.
It feels like you're exploding and
you can't help but be in awe.

And it's beautiful.
It's a moment you wish
you could catch on camera.

It's what keeps you waiting for
the grand finale.

It's what keeps me wanting
you.

Passion behind words is something I worry I feel alone.
I’ve tried sharing my passion of vocabulary,
my passion of poetry with others,
tried showing them the entire novels only
a few lines can write,
and I worry that I seem insane.
I worry that they don’t understand me,
that I’m misinterpreted.
No, I am not saying I feel smarter than you,
I am saying I find beauty in these words,
these stories.
My father calls it beatnik.
He believes spoken word poetry exists nowhere but a paper,
that it is not meant to be spoken,
that it is a lesser version of rap--
which he also hates.
I pattern my syllables or rhyming to create what I see as art,
only to have others raise an eyebrow and wonder
what my “damage” is.
Distinguishing my deterioration is not the objective at hand.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.

If you look to the stars on a late winter night,
you’ll find they shine brighter than normal.
Although summer’s warmer and
most would rather look at the stars then,
I often find myself stepping out on December nights
to stare into the depths above,
playing connect the dots.
The thing with the sky is,
no matter how far you try to look into it,
you’ll never figure it out.
I worry I’m the same.
I’ve been looking deep inside myself for years,
trying to find the meaning to which I provide life.
I’ve been trying to figure out why the dark spots are so vast
in comparison to the light.
It was only recently that I found
that despite the dark,
despite the ever-growing black,
there were gargantuan amounts of light,
only they were smaller.
What I’ve found
is it’s the little things.
And just like the sky,
there is so much dark,
and yet so much light.
So instead of looking for the light in the sky,
I should find the light in myself.
Maybe there’s a few constellations in me, too.