I flung my screams over the gunwhale
Into the unhearing sea
And lowered my anchor, weighted
with an ignominious plea:

Just as a single dark wave
Costs the vessel its course,
So did my evanescent joy
cost me you;

Even the riverbank is changed
minutely by its waters,
and so my life alters
with you

The storm stirs wildly,
but sobers, from thence
coming ashore
and so does my spirit for
you

It was not
 Roses
and fields strewn with

sunlight and summer breezes it was

Sitting at the foot of waterfalls, being 
pelted by a concentrated rain.

It may be cowardly to restrain love like a secret,
But I am in a warring state: the battle of my eyes
to tear themselves from the ground
And meet the face and the voice I’ve so come to adore;
How do I see?
in the darkness of a night

induced by disagreed sources of light;

Misdirected attention;

The shade of unrequited affection?
What is the substance of cowardice, then?

Poetry is a just a mechanism
It is falsely aged paper
 used to wrap the mundane and
mimic some borrowed aesthetic;
Some flimsy, pastel-ed fairyland

He is not what my poetry says he is.

He’s not the ocean, or the moon’s sighs

There's no universe in his eyes

How unfair, to paint him as more
 than a man
when he is nothing but.

But I was a pocket of restless words 
that sought an extravagant form

So when I beheld him, my seams shivered and the whisper came:

“So be it.”

And my hair is a victim of induction,
like my brain was
in frazzled domains; was
quickly growing tired of writing the same way; was
Okay.
With trying something new —
Even if it is just the font and the name.

When this love was not knives

I prided myself in simply knowing:

Being able to pinpoint his laughter

from the resonant balconies of auditoriums,

Predict his speech,

Map his countenance

and the paths of his eyes.
But he walked in that morning wearing your vestige like a smile,

with the glittering of your eyes in the corners of his,

and I knew that I knew him no more.
Now that you’re there,

mosaic-ed to his eyelids 
when he dreams,

fluttering in the chambers of his muse,

There is nothing about him that only I know.

except for the walls

and if those brown and gray walls could speak,

I doubt they’d choose to tell.

Those walls are the only four who know “us”

the way I know “us”:

Our thumbs in each other’s palms,

Our touches innocent,

But lingering just a bit too long

You said,

“We should go home soon”

But I knew you meant,

“I’m sorry.”