I feel each muscle shift individually.
Each breath, inhaling directly through me.
The lost boy I see when I look in his eyes--
Revealed underneath his charming disguise.
I want to feel him everywhere
And share as much as I can bear.
I listen for every sigh, each moan.
His eyes reveal that I am home.
......
Using him strictly for my body
He might as well be anybody.
He's handsome, yes, a piece of art
But I will never know his heart.
His chest is hard and cold as steal
Like machinery grinding, unwilling to feel.
What's done is done, I've met my aim.
I leave as empty as I came.

She asked me if I missed him:

i miss him like the last train leaving from the station
with no money in my pocket,
just this long-winded poetry that has left its claws in me, in us.

he is everything i can't quite mold into metaphors
or syllables below the surface.
you were right when you said i was in over my head but i've been
checking these walls for a way out since the day i forgot how to feel
and he came to me like footholds carved in the cement.

i miss him like reading my favorite book for the very first time, i miss him like childhood and holidays and the longest day of summer, when the temperature rose like the fever i had broke when i was sick with butterflies and cheesy love songs.

Do I miss him?
The answer is yes.

She asked me if it was worth it:

i'm reminded of the passenger seat of your car
where you taught me it was okay to be  happy for no reason,
to be in love with the life you were given simply because there's things
like the smell of a memory and homemade pizza and the 20 questions game.

the way your eyes can tell stories
and your hands can plea bargain
and I knew from that day on that it takes true lovers to be silly.

If I could trade days of dreaming for seconds of spooning I would do in a hummingbird heartbeat because a day without you is like a year without rain, &
I'm living in a drought.
But the very moment your chest welcomes my shivering lungs, I can feel myself exhale, and the weeks of hydration suddenly become sacrificial.

Is it worth it?
The answer is yes.

It's kind of funny.
I see all these girls,
Beautiful girls,
Perfect hair,
Perfect body,
Perfect skin,
Talk of pain.
Write of pain.
Cry of pain.

But what of pain
Do they really know?
Don't love me,
They say,
I am broken-
I am insignificant-
I have walls-
And every man
Falls into their hand
Like they planned,
I suppose.

It angers me,
You see, for

I am lacking
Perfect hair,
A perfect body,
And perfect skin.
I talk of pain.
I write of pain.
I cry of pain but,

I am alone.

Dreams
Endure,
And
Time
Hangs.