sometimes boys will whisper  
i love you's too quickly
and you, anon, will believe them
with your gentle heart, and
capacity to believe in miracles.

sometimes the first guy isn't
the only one,
sometimes you didn't like him
to begin with and that's okay.
i know you wish it was that easy.

people say to look for love
in all places, but love likes to hide
in the nooks of bookcases,
in cars parked under trees,
in his reflection in the rear mirror
as he glances to see you
walk past with your heels too high,
and smile too giddy.

but that wasn't love.
love is mutually shared.

sometimes you fall in love
and it will hurt worse than that time
you broke your wrist.
you will shake with tremors
of madness and you will
remember his name.

it's like hearing a song
you haven't listened to in years.
something jogs your memory
and you still remember the lyrics.
you will list his hobbies,
his favourite colour, with
perfect memory.

anon, you keep finding love,
and you keep losing it,

but be patient, please.
when you are ready
tell love to come another day.

I tell strangers in fast-food restaurants
that my existence begins and ends
with you,
like my life is some sick joke.
(Two past versions of yourself walk into a bar.)
But they just scoff some rhetoric and say
"are you going down with the ship?"
Like I just woke up from that dream
everyone has where all their teeth fall out.
And there's a little girl
at the end of the docks
unmooring all the boats
because she thinks they'll float away,
but they just sink.
You see,
no amount of blood can change the colour of the sea
and nothing makes sense if there's no you and me.
I want to show you that I write like I ****,
with wide eyes,
both hands
and all over the house.
I want to tell you that I've been in love with you since I was 15,
that I want to sings songs to you from the passenger seat,
I want to make your bed and watch you fix the tv.
I want to look you in the mouth
and not worry that you'll walk away without looking at mine

He's not a man of many graces,
fewer teeth than tongues
but he won't say much with his lips.

He's at his strongest when you push,
but never from a kiss.
See,
he's stubborn in every way that doesn't matter,
in every principle that has no lesson.

I've bent the spines of fragile men
to see how far they'll go
before they break,
before they'll form into a crest
of his back that I can't dig from my head.
I've watched them fall in love with me
because I thought that maybe
one of them would empty me,
but they didn't.

He is an ill-mannered world,
the kind that breads creation.
A manifestation of passion and fear.
With eyes that dug twelve foot tunnels in my veins
and went there to die.

A man of simple needs,
plesantaries and shaky knees.
But he doesn't want to see you quiver,
*he only wants to know it.

You see I'm not entirely sure what home feels like,
but when we're sitting together, side by side in nothing but silence,
I begin to slowly understand.

Home is you. Home is a place that brings no judgement, only love.
Home makes you feel okay about being dumped or failing your math test, again.
You've been my home that allows me to live & a home that has managed to teach me about the entire universe.
You've been able to keep me alive by effortlessly loving me, despite my constant moping about.
Your existence alone has given me more reason than ever before & for once, I don't want to give up. Not on me & never on you.

I cannot think of anyone else who deserves to wear that pretty smile each day, carelessly, effortlessly.
& most importantly, I cannot think of anyone else who deserves to be loved,
who deserves to have their tea hot each morning & to have men write bad poetry because no words in the dictionary are worthy of describing your entire being.
You are the mid night poetry at 2am that everyone talks about.
You are the reason we should all have insomnia, because it's a little difficult to fall asleep when fragments of your face & the happiness you shed on us each passing day keeps replaying in our heads.
With a heart of gold, you make people believe in love & all the little things in between.
No,
this is not a poem,
but proof that when my heart beats,
it beats to find its way home.