I think I loved you most the winter your heating was broken
And we’d stay inside all morning
Pretending to complain that we couldn’t get out of bed
Our clothes becoming little islands on the floor,
Ones that we could not quite find the courage to visit

Your hand stayed glued to my hip,
Your breath warming my shoulder
Like a long drag of whiskey
That kind that had a home so far away,
In a glass bottle on top of your refrigerator.
The one that would not be opened
Until that fateful day in February,
When everything went wrong

And on that unbearable night
When you joked that you’d freeze to death if I left you
There was a long silence
Like it might be true.

Now it’s warm enough
That I show too much skin when sitting in bars
And you avoid me like the plague,
Whispering in any girl’s ear that’s near to you
Every time you see me watching out of the corner of your eye

We should have stayed inside when the ice began to melt
Because I think
When those doors opened and we finally ventured outside
The world had changed,
And so had you and I.

When the North Wind blows, it howls, it blows
To toss my ship in frigid cold.
The icy wet does chill my breast,
And hardens hearts, both young and old.

When the East Wind Blows, it laughs, it blows.
Its mischief sends my ship astray.
What fancy fun the East Wind hums,
But leaves my charts in disarray.

When the South Wind blows, it screams, it blows.
Such stormy shrieks do scrape the rails.
This wind, with rain, brings numbing pain.
Its screeching voice could tear my sails.

But when the West Wind blows, it sighs, it knows
Its whisper, soft, will gain my trust.
And on voyage long, it sings its song
And gives my ship a gentle gust.

When the West Wind blows, it knows, it knows.

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

all of the words
you speak
today and tomorrow
are in vain

for you do not wish
to throw rocks at my window,
you know very well
i am already on my doorstep
waiting for you

you love me in songs played
on tuesday afternoons,
gaps in conversation where
three words are meant to fill it
and faded journal entries
dated when time was blind

you’ve written disguised goodbyes
beneath my eyes
and subliminally (explicitly)
whispered (shouted)
to move on, move on, move on
each moment i’ve tried to draw you nearer,
you do your best to push me further away

but even from a distance,
you are still holding on

let me go
let me go
let me go

so i may finally
let go
of
you

i miss you, still
no longer in a deep, aching way,
but rather in the dull hum of my car radio

i hope you smiled today

and while you’re getting swept up
in the excitement and mystery and
passion of this confusing, intriguing,
heartbreaking, beautiful life,

i hope you never forget what is most important

i hope you remember that
it’s not about finding someone to complete
and write sappy poems about,
it’s not about listening to soft music on repeat
with your eyes closed,
wishing you were somewhere else
or someone else,
and it’s not about doing well on exams,
or traveling the world,
or always being artificial sunshine
instead of being real

because it’s okay to have sad days,
and a number in the corner of a page
can’t give you lasting satisfaction,
and you can’t be everyone’s prince charming,
and while music stirs up something
so beautiful inside of us,
you can’t hide in your melancholy world
of D minor, forever

every night i pray that you’re not lost,
that you’re somehow finding your way,
and although
i can’t speak these words to you directly,
i hope you know
i’ll always care

sometimes i call your
number just for a recording
to tell me that it is
no longer i use; you’re
gone and i wish i had the
chance to speak to you
just one more time, but
i know that’s a wish i’ll
waste on shooting stars
for quite awhile

so, i’ll see you in songs and
movies that remind me of you;
old poems, the whispering
wind, and my aching heart

maybe i’ll see your face
on a crowded sidewalk
one day,

or maybe
i’ll never hear from you again

“one day”

i’m so hopeful for one day.

i don’t want to be someone who writes in pencil
and eats too slowly and walks with eyes that
are glued to the sidewalk and tops of strangers’ feet
i’ve been underwater for so long that
i’ve forgotten lungs are meant
to be filled with air; exhaling seems
more like something found
on the second star to the right, rather
than a process that is meant to be
done twenty-three thousand times a day

i feel like an old woman who
looks in the mirror and all she can see
are wrinkles and white hair and tired eyes and
the absence of who she used to be

but i am not someone who turns away
from sunsets and pretends
that darkness is all i’ve ever known;
someone who thinks
the sun will never rise again

because the sun will rise again—
the words hiding inside of me will
find their way out, because
i cannot hold my breath forever

i am not someone who writes in pencil
and erases the bits that are too
honest and too imperfect and too real
to claim as thoughts of my own

i cannot keep my lips pursed and
hands tied behind my back,
i cannot keep pretending i am
a shadow of who i used to be

my tomorrows hold suns much
brighter than ones that have risen
over horizons of my past;
i have not reached the summit yet

there is so much more me
for me to become

each day, i am new.

The stars above her head they glow
I beg a peace of mind to know
That when you go back home so long
You won't see her, don't play her song

Bliss so deep and trust so fair
No matter what, I'll always care
But please don't tell me what I deserve
I said I'm here, those aren't just words

And I will miss that time we made out to Miles
That night brought tears to the turntable dial
And despite all the words you desperately say
I can tell; I know you are not okay

I must be honest, I'm not sure
If this will die or long endure
I cannot keep serendipity at bay
But I'm still scared dear, and I want you to stay

Girls are from Venus and boys,
from Mars - we are strategically apart though we are both
made of stars. There are 6 other parts
to our solar system listed if you listen in class. People are not transparent
glass, we are not to be seen through and reduced
to white or black or skinny or fat or boys or girls. There are 6 other planets,
ten trillion undiscovered worlds
of grey. It is okay
to be something else, you are still

something else.