Yes I'm still playing guitar and yes I still write poetry. But lavander is no longer my favorite flower, it tends to leave a bitter aroma in the air. And now black is my favorite color, like the color of my bedroom all the nights I lay awake searching for stars on my ceiling. I still think of you from time to time but the romance my mind told me to feel has disappeared. I can't say I'm much happier but that's because I've been damaged. It's not entirely your fault, but you're not faultless. I can honestly say that I've stopped missing your hands. I don't love you.
It's 2:31 in the morning and I still have trouble sleeping. But I'm no longer laying on a pillow drenched in tears. I'm laying next to someone who loves me more than you ever could.
Yesterday. The idea of the past. The belief that what we do can become what we have done; what we say, what we have said; who we love, who we have loved. To have the audacity to believe that our shadows can no longer follow us once we step away from them. Growing up, we've all heard the saying at least once. "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me." But they do. And they leave the deepest scars that we hide deep in our heart, locked up like a child that wants to go outside and play but his mother doesn't want him to come home with a scraped knee. But that's all it is. A minuscule wound that can be healed with time, and maybe a little Neosporin. By no means does that mean we should hide from the pavement because we fell off of our bike one day. We must remember that yesterday was once tomorrow, and tomorrow will soon become yesterday.
there's a hole in the wall
and i think that's a representation of my life
because i've had to build my own foundation
and make myself a house
but i can't admire the architecture
because there's a gaping hole where something should be
there's a hole in the wall
i've built around my heart
a flaw, a weak spot
i wake up in the morning
and i don't understand why
or how i'm still here
because my heart is failing
there's a hole in the wall
i've been meaning to fix
for some time now
and eight months
but i still can't gather the energy
to admit that the hole in the wall
molds to my fist
If you knew anything about her
you'd wouldn't have bought her flowers.
You'd know that she hates them except for when they die
because everything looks more beautiful when it's asleep.
If you had the slightest clue
as to who she is
you'd have played her Zelda's lullaby instead
on the instrument you've probably never even heard of.
You'd know that you could never understand her unless you learned to read her eyes.
You'd learn that even the grayest clouds have a silver lining
but you could never appreciate the beauty
of the way she looks as she reads a letter
or the way she walks away.
You could never admire her
a fraction of the way that I do
because I care so much about her that
this poem was already written on my heart
the day I first saw her.
1 page out of 365 more.
A blank page I dragged the ink across with an idea in mind but now my jagged lines are a permanent prologue to another tragedy.
One that ends with the blade of a razor painted crimson with haste.
Blood drops on the floor that seem to spell out the words, "I didn't mean to."
I didn't mean to be the antagonist in your story line. I never meant to be a main character, or to even make an appearance.
I'm sorry you read my lines and got attached to me. I print these letters on a typewriter with no backspace button for my mistakes. This is the mess I have made.
1 shiny sliver of metal.
A blank wrist I dragged the edge across with desire in my heart but now plum-colored scars are a permanent epilogue to another tragedy.
Don't ask me why I haven't texted you good morning in a week and three days and don't ask me why I open your messages but never reply.
Don't ask me why I stopped sending you inspirational quotes or cute pictures of cats
but please don't ask me why I stopped writing about you
because I haven't been able to.
I simply stopped sending them to you with a piece of my heart attached
because I don't think you'd care to read my most honest 3am thoughts
about how I love the ineffably perfect things
like how much you love your fuzzy socks
or how you wish you could sing.
Don't ask me why I don't text you good night anymore
at exactly 9:00
because all I would be able to say is
"I wanted you to notice me and it seems you only noticed when I do nothing
and sadly those two are the same exact thing."
Darling have I told you, I love the way your eyes fall on me like autumn leaves.
Vivid shades of passion, floating gently in the crisp, clear sky.
The butterflies that swarm throughout my body tickling every one of my aching bones.
The cracks in my ribcage from a previous implosion, now healing by your whispered touch.
Your lips tenderly brush mine like my lips are made of glass and you're afraid you'll break them.
I love the flickering of your eyelashes when you're getting sleepy but you don't want to say goodnight, and the steady grip you hold on my hips when you finally drift off.
It seems the world is so much more quiet when your fingertips are dancing down my spine, gliding softly against my skin.
The moon is silent and the pain in my chest is hushed by the breath entering and exiting your lungs.
The rising and falling of your chest, a speaker playing the sound of my favorite song- your heartbeat, on maximum volume.
The warmth of your sighs excite every nerve in my flesh.
I feel myself come alive as your eyes stare into mine as if they can see more than the haunting fear of losing you, although I know you can never leave because our hearts are tethered.