I believe
it was Neruda
who once said
‘Tonight
I can write the saddest lines’.
Well I guess
tonight,
I can write
books,
encyclopaedias,
libraries
and still never say enough.
You are the words in my sentence
and the poem in my pen,
even now.

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

I could give you a list of hand written "I miss you's" that would stretch to the moon and back but it still wouldn't convey to you just how my heart aches when you're away.  I could bend and mold to your every whim, do every single thing your heart desires, but I don't think you'd pick up on the fact that I'd give anything to keep you happy. I could tell you that your eyes are green with grey and gold swirling through them without even looking at you and you probably still wouldn't notice how much I stare into them. I've seen you at your worst, and at your best, and been right here throughout it all and still you haven't caught on that I love you.

You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.

But I always forget to tell her

and I tell her that too

and she asks why I forget

reply comes easy

it just a wayfaring, stepping stone

on the way to my

kissing your neck,

and thus overlooked,

but always the first thing I see...

your bones,

they protrude

at awkward angles,

where the veins meet your muscles.



the thick grey lines,

cast on your ivory skin,

like waves on the violent ocean surface,

the shadows from your bones.



from your collar bones,

to your ribcage,

to your hips,

to your thighs,

and to your ankles.



the lack in the amount of flesh,

the lack in the amount of muscle mass.



to me they were perfect.



your bones,

they were just

beautiful.

It's almost 2am.
I'm kind of laying here in the hot, unnatural heat.
I miss you a little bit.
My insomnia has been bad lately.
I guess you're okay.
I'll just write about you for awhile until I drift off into the colourless world of pretend realitys promising to bring you back to me.