You are so beautiful,
so pure--it makes it difficult
to resist a simple, loving kiss
or embrace.

Your eyes glow
and sparkle in the dim moonlight,
making it hard to turn
away from
your gaze.

I have been looking
for a long time,
for someone like you.

Now, I have
and I am not about
to let you go.

It sounded like whispers, you know?
The life dripping from your eyes.

It corroded like zippers, wet,

from years of spilling rain

onto an inconsistent raincoat.

Sometimes I remember, do you?

The amount of time found,

spent and all but lost.

We were children, then,

with nothing but nap times,

play times, and Lego shrines.

Second hands dressed up

as hours; and minutes, well,

they just didn’t matter. 

Splatter paint was a 
way of life and life

was just a way to live. 

The simple times

always flew faster

than the last.

I don’t want to talk

because I don’t want to feel;

I’d hate to convince you

that these feelings are real.

I promise I’m smiling,

a bright shining star;

so don’t you come over,

just stay where you are.

Ignore all the phone calls,

mixed with my endless pleas;

I swear that it’s nothing,

I just needed to bleed.

My veins have stayed shut,

so don’t raise the alarm;

I spill out onto paper,

to save wrists from harm.

You will find me bruised,

buried, and broken,

beneath sedimentary

silence and ignorant
igneous; pummeled 

and porous.  

You will find me 

deaf and defeated

under uprooted

forests, filled

to the canopy

with carnage.

You will find me ablaze,

alone, and abandoned,

as shivering shadows

make way for

an overflowed ocean.

And you will find me

dead in the dirt

you have trampled;

and I will bleed

into the sea.

Disappear before I miss you,
and be gone before I care.
Take flight before I realize
that all I want, is to be there.

You were delivered in flowers,

bright bouquets of indifference,

and you floated like lillies,

through vines of resistance.

Your green stems left untrimmed,

and your heart in a bow,

you slowly unraveled,

with your petals on show.

But the daisies all wilted,

the ones I loved the best,

and I realized you’re empty,

dead butterflies in your chest.

To the greatest Englishmen I’ve ever known,

with thick skin quite like the strength of stone,

your charm has passed my comfort zone,

what a shame it is(not); we sleep alone. 

Forced into writing a poem “on you,”

it sounds more like some type of odd goo.

I promise this poem is almost now through,

just swear to forget it by the time the day’s new.