I touch you in a place
most look past,
a place within reach.

It is within this place
I feel most alive.

The space between hearts,
the space between fingers,
interlocked, soft and slow.

No one really pays attention
to the space mid-heartbeat
only the beginning and the end
of palpation.

But here, I taste the air
and come to life.

It’s not heavy.
In fact, I am weightless.

But I feel it
in the hopes that you reciprocate.

No different than the space
between minutes,
simply ticking.

The world is not ours,
but that isn't a reason to be afraid.

When I think about you,
I visit this place,
not afraid to knock on your ribs,
with every intention
to exist closer to your heart

I don’t know if you ever listened to the sky

when it gets hungry.

It growls.
It rumbles.
Even roams.

It sits in the dark,
contemplating what it wants.

Then,

Boom.

Thunder hits
without warning.

At some point,
we've all been there
hungry, with no idea
what we want to eat,
no one to ask,
everything sounding good.

Thunder hits again.

The hush left to whisper
between lips,
******* in air.

It’s enough to make you mad.

The rain doesn’t wait.
The lightning
not knowing where to begin.

Hunger waits for release.

I am the moment
that waits for you

in-between

Girl, you so jive.
You can talk butter off bread
all sweet, whether the sun is shining or not.

I seen your type before,
wearing a dress, your purse matching
whatever printed accent
swaying in the wind.

I bet when it rains,
it doesn’t touch you
too busy moving,
too many things going on.

I bet you smile
even when no one is around.
Who needs company
when you got it going on like that?

Gone head, snap your fingers,
do your step
with your jive self.

You walk in like you own the place,
scratching off pieces of your heart
whether it’s the right place
or the wrong time.

One thing they can’t say
about you
is that you hold up the line.

Everybody gets a piece.

You ain’t fooling nobody
with your jive self.

Some things
are more important than money.

With your sweet,
jive self.

Your name fit in my mouth
like a prayer I don’t remember whispering,
somewhere between hunger
and desire.

It was an apple,
ripe and on time.
I didn’t ask where it came from,
but I was glad to see it.
It presses between my lips,
juice slipping
down my wrist.

Before meeting you,
I don’t quite remember
the taste of anything.
And I know better
the weight of consequence,
the weight of every yes
and no,
how a single bite
can change everything.

Now that I’ve tasted you,
I love you past knowing,
though part of me reconsiders,
curious
about the sound of your name.

By this definition,
hunger has its own way
of deciding what stays
and what goes.

Where once I wouldn’t have dared,
now I know
what you feel like in my hands,
how easily you get caught
in my teeth,
how you remind me
of spring,
summer,
and fall.

No matter how fast
my heart beats,
when I bite,
I am whole
hunger silencing
the thought of losing you.



Love Poem, Creative Writing, Falling For You, Temptation, Desire, Apple Symbolism, Intimacy, Eve And The Apple, Deep Meaning, The Art Of Words, Fate, Words That Burn, Lust, Forbidden Fruit, Writing Community, Magnetic Love, Lost In The Words, Kewayne Wadley Poetry, Discover Poetry, Hunger, Unfinished Business, Late Night Vibes, Romantic, For Her, Poetry Blog, Original Poetry, Heart On Paper, The Way Things Change, Risk, Intimate, Weight Of Choice, Point Of No Return, Spiritual, Emotional, Instinctive, Sensual, Restraint,

They love to say
we bring out the best in each other
that I bring out the best in you,
like that's the only thing I am good for,
the only reason I am in your life.

They smile
and point.

It won’t last.
Eventually, he will leave.
Even the moon goes through phases.

As if I’ll just
pack my bags
and leave you behind,

as if I could just
erase my entire existence.

Baby,
I love how they think
you cannot think
for yourself.

your friends,
all the people around you.

They think they know
the truth
when they see me
half the time.

Baby,
I understand
the concept,
the concern.

But even the moon
doesn’t fully disappear,
If you look closer.

Just because they don’t see it
doesn’t mean
I’ve left your sky.

Some things
are just meant
for you.

No matter
how much they point,
or try to pull you
to the side,

there is no hiding
from you

I want to build a home with you
a place pieced together of words,
passed from you to me.

Eventually, the walls will breathe,
and they, too, will whisper
through our bones.

No matter how old we get,
they will still be there.

Although neither of us will
completely own this home,
what we will own
is how it makes us feel
and the memories we'll soon sit on
like furniture.

A place we'll come to spend
most of our time,
an inner standing
that it will house both of us,
no matter how we choose
to express ourselves.

The first meal we'll have,
I'll season with my smile
so you can taste what I taste
and feel what I feel
when I see you.

Then you'll understand
why I have nothing to hide,
why I open and include you
in different places in my life.

In this home I want to build with you,
there isn't a wind or a force
that could blow it down.

Even if we were to separate,
my hands will still remember
how we built it
brick by brick,

the mortar sealed
with a kiss from your lips

Well, babe, I’ve been let go
I am still learning how to let go.
My hands are so tired.
The people we once were,
the you I once knew,
evaporate into the rearview.

If you refuse to drive
hell, if you won’t even touch the wheel
we’ll keep speeding toward something too dark,
something neither of us can name.
I don't want that for us.

If not for me, then for you.
If I take my foot off the gas,
we go nowhere.
You said, let go.
But there is no way I can let go
without leaving you behind.

We don’t have to crash.
Babe, I’m tired.
We’ve driven too far past the last exit to turn around.
Skidded across the median more times than I’d like.
I don’t mind the potholes,
the chipped paint,
or the blurred lines.

but if we pull over,
I’m not getting back behind the wheel

I’ve lived in your heart for a minute now.
And though I love it here,
the faucet leaks,
the door doesn’t shut right
sometimes I have to hold a hand to it
just to lock it back.

When you drink, the space between your ribs
tightens, and your liver expands.

The neighbors aren’t so bad.
They keep to themselves.
When they see me, we talk about
how high the rent is,
how much we don’t get in return for the association fees,
how often we wake up to notices on our door
about late payments
always knocking like the police.

For this reason, I don’t attend any of the meetings.
But I don’t want to leave.

I’ve lived in your heart for a minute now
long enough to sleep through the creaks
when it settles,
long enough to know that home is where my heart is.

Forever isn’t a day here.
It stretches into the way you snore
when you think no one is listening
probably my favorite sound

You live between the space
of my fingers,
the caress between my lips.

I only remember when I forget.

Like last night
I thought of you, and it felt like
you were there.

Suddenly, my hands felt like yours
Were there.

Creep is such a bad word,
But there is no other way
to describe it.
I swear I was not thinking about you
only to realize that I was.

And then, I felt the familiar weight of your presence.

You live between the space of my thoughts,
somewhere that's not a dream
but also not just a memory.

When I close my eyes,
you are there,
and I question if you're thinking of me.

Every time I think
and I realize it—
you disappear.

But the weight
the weight of you
I'll never forget.

I only remember when I forget

She walks in, her eyes like soft pencil lines.
She smiles when she looks at the waitress,
ordering a coffee.

I sip mine slow, looking out the diner window.

“You always draw this late?” she asks.

Only when I can’t sleep. Or when I’m hungry.
Just depends on which one happens first.

She rolls her eyes.

Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.

Normally, when I draw, I’m in my own little world.
No conversation. Just my graphite and my sketchpad.
Of all the beautiful colors that life can arrange,
I admit—I’m intrigued by this woman.

I completely put my pencil down and let my coffee get cold.
But that’s how fast inspiration strikes.

This grayscale drawing, splashed with the rainbow that is her.

Although I’m listening, I keep my head down,
pretending I’m still drawing the picture I was working on
when she first walked in.

She sits two booths away, hesitating before asking,
“Can you draw me?”

I look up immediately.
“You’d have to come closer.”

I catch the reflection of the city in her eyes—
the blinking sign outside, the brake lights from the cars.

I flip the page and start tracing lines on my sketchpad.

She tilts her head, watching my progress.
I ask the waitress for a refill.

“Do you ever draw people you don’t know?”

I look at her, smile, and say, “No.”

At some point, we see everyone before we really meet them.

In a way, it wasn’t a lie.
I have seen her somewhere before.
Or at least, I’ve thought of meeting someone
who looks the way she looks.

But then again, art is subjective.

She watches me over the rim of her mug as she sips her coffee.

She leans forward.
“What do you see when you look at me?”

The most beautiful things happen at unexpected moments.

Normally, when someone asks a question like that,
if you answer too fast, it’s a lie.
If you take too long, it’s a lie.

Before I knew it, I told her:
“Someone that talks to strangers when she’s bored.”

She rolls her eyes.
“Let me see.”

I show her the sketch,
point at it, and imitate her voice.
“Can you draw me?”

It’s not exactly polished.

She studies the rough graphite,
scratched to life between the pores of the page.

She rests her elbows on the table.

Before she answers, I speak first.

“I think about what things can be, versus what’s presented to us.
If we tell each other something deep about ourselves—
a strong 7.5 out of 10—it’s going to be either forgettable
or full of ****. Either way, we’re both hoping
not to regret opening up
to someone who’s just going to nod and smile.”

She smirks.
“If I told you I love the progress on the picture so far, what then?”

I shrug.
“I’d still think you’re full of ****.
But you’re kind of cute.”

Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.

To be honest, I don’t think it’s the uncertainty of where I’d land.
I haven’t exactly lived my life by the advice I give other people.

I never really think about the end of things.

Whatever I do, I just go with it and expect the best.
I think about it, of course.
But eventually, the ink runs out.

That’s just life.

Although I’m drawing her physically,
in my mind, I’ve drawn the curve of her neck twice over.

The thought of drawing someone else
doesn’t even come to mind

When I made it to work,
I thought about you
getting through the day,
pushing time forward
until it was finally time to go.
I had no idea what I wanted to eat
until the thought of splitting you open,
watching you sit in the depth of my fork,
did it for me.
A scoop of fried rice,
mixed with gravy
there is something so satisfying
about that first bite,
about savoring the moment,
readying the next forkful.
There’s nothing wrong
with wanting something
that wants you back.

If I spill any part of you
on my clothes,
on my hand,
on the table
I still want you.
I will still have you.

There’s nothing wrong
with burgers, burritos,
or any of the other places I pass.
But in this very moment,
the way these eggs, bean sprouts,
and green onions wrap around my tongue
nothing else compares.
Pressing my fork into your crisp edges,
watching the steam rise
I, um,
should’ve ordered extra

She moves fast like a city
full of names, things to do,
and places to be.
No matter how fast she moves,
there is always a spot for you.

Regardless of where you go,
not every woman, not every city,
is the same.

She highlights her personality,
the buildings of her priorities,
Her personalities,
like dominos
uncovered and placed strategically.

The way she was raised,
the not so pretty parts,
Behind the well known parts
of her,
not necessarily put away.
But still, there is a place for you.
Whether it's a quiet night in,
or an event organized
to get to know each other better,
the margins of her heart beat for you
Between the counties.

Although she moves fast,
and one day with her varies from the next,
she's not afraid to let you know that she's busy.
Once she handles all of her business,
be ready to catch up on all that missed time.

But don't forget
she doesn't just find the time
to call or text.
She shows up.
You too are a part of her world

I know you, Moon
Shining pieces of light
that are not your own.

As beautiful as you are,
as full as you look,
there are pieces of yourself
that you hide in the dark
the empty patches
left by those who took
but never gave.

If I could, I'd
climb
up
next to you
and offer you a
piece
of myself,
to make you feel whole.

I, too, know
what it's like
to
hide
pieces
of
yourself.

At least with you,
that piece will be called beautiful,
and no one will know the difference
except for you and me.
I know you, Moon

Clouds form and fill the sky
Everything turns gray.
Still, there is no you.
You don't say sorry.
You don't say anything.

I walk outside,
Expecting to see you
At the very least, hear you
Rumble closer.

The sky is just as stubborn,
Refusing to move.
Here I am, outside
Head tilted back,
Mouth open, waiting for you.

Picturing your voice
Rumbling in the distance.
You don't say that you're sorry.
The rain still hasn't come

Are you familiar with the phrase, "Looks like your mom dressed you?"
That’s what I see when I look at you
Not because of the clothes, but because of the care.
And that’s what makes me love you the most.

I show it in how much I care.
I offer to buy you lunch when I know you’ve had a long day.
And still, you have the energy to talk to me the way you do
The way you make me feel like I am family.

Your words are a comfort you don’t realize I need.
And while there’s nothing wrong with Mom,
Babe, your dad raised you right.
He taught you that the world is tough
That to get a single thing you want,
You have to go through so much.
And still, you tell yourself that everything is going to be okay.
I know because I live it, and it’s easy to see.
Babe, you carry your father’s strength.

You love me protectively.
You make space for me.
You save room for me.
It’s rare to find a woman like you.
Every time you leave,
I’m already waiting to see your face again.

I love the way you were raised

I want to sink
And lose myself 600 ways in you
Losing myself in how you feel,  
How you smell.
A softness that doesn't fray
Between the heat  
Shared between you and me,  
It doesn't wrinkle.  
It doesn't crease.  

It's not a traumatic response  
From any part of your or my journey.  
You breathe against me
The kind of comfort that trust  
Cannot put into words.  
Unrushed. Patient.  
The way home should feel.

Before true happiness,  
I stretch and unwind  
In your quiet
Twisting and turning,  
My face pressed into how  
Warm you are.  
When I lay on you,  
I don't want to get up.  
I want to lay here and dream,  
Far from the suffocation  
That exists away from you.  

No matter how rough I am,  
Compared to your softness
This goes beyond material reality
Where hands and feet  
Don't have to beg for rest.
They just are.

There are no wrinkles in how you love,  
In the way you unfold and spread yourself.  
Eventually,  
Love doesn’t stay young forever.  
It matures in its openness.  
In this, there is surrender.  
I am consumed in you
No longer twisting,  
No longer turning,  
But at peace.
Whether I am closing my eyes
Or opening them.
I am glad that you're here

I watched you walk away,
Like I was an outsider,
Like I wasn't the one who loved you.
Not once did you look back—
Both of us proud,
Not wanting to break
And speak the words
That would turn everything around.

One stop, one wait,
One foot in front of the other,
Would ease the heaviness
Of watching you walk away.
But here I am,
Stuck, standing still,
The world seamlessly
Going on around me.

Part of me is stuck in the shadow,
Everything moving
From one axis to the next.
Another part of me realizes
That when the earth changes axis
And rotates the other way,
No one really feels it.

And here I am,
Stuck either way.
In time, even dust
Has to move

When I got in the shower,
I noticed that you hung
your washcloth next to mine.
When I realized,
I stared at it for a minute,
feeling a relief that words
can't really assure.

Not exactly rocket science,
but it took me by surprise
to see it hanging there,
reaching over it to grab mine.
When I finished washing,
I rung mine out and hung
it back beside yours,
scooting it over to make sure
there was enough room
for both to hang.

The parts of ourselves
that we try to hide,
welcoming them both
back home.

A small gesture that made me
reconsider not just my day,
but you
softening the distance between us,
at least long enough to shower, dry off,
and see your face when I walk out
the bathroom.
You don't ask for more.
To be honest
It's not about the rags at all.
Just another thing that makes me
Think of you

He is her mirror,
The one she stands before
Whether things are good or bad.
Until she walks away,
She doesn’t understand
The cracks spreading
Across her face,
Ignoring the obvious
She applies more makeup.
Though she’s gone,
Her presence lingers,
Soon to follow.

In front of her mirror,
She could speak as freely
As she wanted,
Be seen for who she is.
In front of family and friends,
She’s quiet,
Acting out of appearance,
Ignoring the space, she thought
Was empty.

She doesn’t think about it
Until a friend brings it up.
Talking about her own love life,
A place she feels secure.
Her friend’s smile, big and bright,
While she speaks.
She thinks of him,
Her mirror.
No matter how bad she feels.
He finds a way
To make her feel better.
If something is off,
He’s quick to point it out.
He’s always there when
She needs him.
She never had to speak
To be seen when he was around.
The only place she only felt whole.
The cracks on her face shows

I want to see you as a person,
Not your body,
Nor the way your fingers curl
Around my side
When you hold on to me.
I want to see you for who you are,
Not for what I or the world wants to see.
I want to hear your heartbeat,
For reasons that may feel selfish to me,
But are selfless to you.
Your own truth,
That has no reason to be,
Except for the fact that you wanted it
To be.
Like a child taking their first step.
No matter how wild, they are free.

Even if that means separating from me,
The further you step.
For some, a minute feels like an hour
And a day feels like forever,
But the fire in your eyes that starts
when you smile
Keeps me warm,
Whenever I think of you,
And keeps the shadows away.
Until you return

I'll wait in patience,
Until I see your face,
Until the next time I see you smile.
But I won't rush it
The way I feel.
I love the anticipation,
The way you give me things
To think about.

I'll learn to live through the ache,
I'll learn self-control,
And learn to hold still
Until the next time I see you.
The best stories are told
In pieces.
Not that there's anything wrong
With instant gratification,
Nonetheless,
Waiting allows that time between us
To linger and to grow.

So that the next time I see your face,
I am fully there,
Appreciative of that moment
A kiss that waits in the dark,
Waiting for the light of your lips.
Knowing that a week apart,
This kiss only grows,
Stretched thin, built in
Anticipation.

But I won't rush it.
Every episode is like this,
My favorite show.
If I were to watch all of you now,
Then there wouldn't be anything left.
So I choose to be patient,
My attention solely focused
On you.
Love moves slow,
Although some moments
Move fast.
There is always time to rewatch
And to think
But only after we've taken our time
And lived to do so.
I'll wait patiently
Until the next time I see your face

When the bill came,
We split it,
Not because we couldn’t afford it
Or because one of our egos
Got in the way.
The world has enough debt
And definitely enough lies.
The first step to getting to know
Each other is to stop pretending
That we’re anything other than human.

I love the way you took your time
Looking over the menu,
Not a quick glance, but in a thoughtful,
Meaningful Way,
Considering what you really wanted.
Something that would keep you full,
Even after you left.
I could see myself falling in love
With you,
Taking your time before speaking,
Processing every word,
Not afraid to explain after you speak.

The money didn’t matter.
Regardless of the circumstances,
It would still be spent
Why not share the experience?
No different than me holding
My fork up, asking you
To try what’s on my plate.

There’s no need to hide who we are,
Whether my stomach growls
In front of you or when I’m away.
There are things more important
Than money.
The place closes in a couple more
Hours.
Want to order something else?
My treat?

I'll light every
Firework that I can find
For you.
Every ounce of you,
Including the parts
That you like to hide.
They deserve to be seen
And heard too.

The next second
Not to mention the next year
Isn't promised.
Although not the same
As overseas,
There is still reason to celebrate
The crackle of firecrackers,
The release of red lanterns,
To light the street of your heart,
As well as the sky.

We're not as young as we
Used to be.
But that doesn't mean that we have
To act like it.
The fire that courses
Through my lungs can't wait
To get out and roar
Like a dragon,
And break the silence
In celebration.

A red envelope wrapped in fire,
And sealed with the flash
Of prosperous smiles.
Every time I see you,
It feels like New Year's.
And when you kiss me,
My soul sizzles,
Stirring up this fire
That dances through my body.

The next second
Not to mention the next year
Isn't promised.
Tomorrow may not come.
If there ever was a time
To burn down and sweep up
Pieces of our old selves,
Why wait?

You are the sun
That peeks
Through the window,
Letting me know that
It's time to get the day
Started.

You are the roots,
Cut and carved from the trees
That provide shelter,
A place to live,
A place to grow.
A foundation built
From strong roots,
That stretch and wrap around me.

You are the air that circulates
Through my lungs,
The air that, if I think about too long,
I'll mess up how much
You've changed my life.

When I am in you,
I am not in some house,
Nor am I in just any old room.
I realize that I am home,
That I have everything I need.

When I close my eyes,
The first thing I see
Is you,
And how the first thing
I want to do is come back
To you

Falling asleep in your heart
is like déjà vu.
a place I’ve never been,
but it feels familiar at the same time.
I don’t mean to creep you out,
but I know every nook and cranny.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep,
but of all the places I could have,
I’m glad that I did here.

Your heartbeat,
the pulse that cracks
and settles like a house,
although not mine,
it feels like home,
like somewhere I belong.

I normally don’t fall asleep
in places I haven’t been.
It takes a while to get accustomed,
especially if it’s my first time there.
Although it’s déjà vu,
and it could be one of those things,
I’m already looking forward
to the next time
falling asleep somewhere in you,
somewhere warm,
somewhere I belong

The heart shaped piggy bank
rolled down the street.
You waited until the door was open
and then rolled right out.
I slid my last dollar in,
building towards something more
something more than paper-thin
ambition,
a future that includes you,
in some shape or form.

I don’t know how you fell,
or how you got down from the shelf.
Better a dollar bill
than my hand stuck inside you.
I’m glad you didn’t break.
I fed you all my dreams,
all my ambitions.
It’s no wonder you didn’t explode
when you hit the ground,
waiting for something real

The rain falls,
pounding into my chest.
After a while, it becomes wet.
It beats and throbs
between the drops.

The lightning cracks
and leaves its streak
a reminder of what it feels
like to love.

Trying to keep pace
with the water that keeps running,
swelling up without a drain.
There’s no escape
just wet skin,
bottled from the inside out.

The rain becomes everything
that it touches.
A storm,
drowning out all the noise around.
While the rain pours,
all I see is your silhouette
a wet slap to the veins
that swells and grows.

Thunder rumbles in the distance

I've never been the best
at making coffee.
I have a moment every now and then.
I pour, and I watch it swirl.
You don’t say much
you just sit and wait.
The liquid swirls,
not aware of the weight
of the world.

Hot, fresh,
Full of life
finally, the mug is filled,
and you take a sip
slow, deliberate.
I want to ask you,
but either way, I’ll never know.
Even if it’s the worst cup
you’ve ever had,
you’ll smile and say it’s good.
Either way,
I too will enjoy the space
shared between you and I,
and brew another ***
just for you.

I love sitting with you,
regardless of what's going on,
or where we are.
Nothing happens.
Everything is at peace.
No anxiety. No weight.
No rush
to be or to do.

Our eyes are free to rest,
our bodies free from tension.
Of all the things I could say,
all the invitations of where we could go,
when I sit with you,
time is irrelevant.
It doesn’t even come ankle high.
It too continues to walk past us,
probably hungry,
looking for something to do,
until we decide to do something
more than sit
and enjoy each other’s time.

The truth is in the way we breathe.
I can say that it’s nothing,
but a piece of me
finds its way into you.

Regret melts slow,
dripping from the side.
It feels like skin being tugged against,
the impression left from
my hand to yours.
The anticipation of being patient
burns and flickers,
excitedly proud to be included.

Your back, the wick that stands straight,
slowly curving,
stretching, releasing tension.
Your legs wrapped in mine.
If you were to blow too hard,
the flame would whoosh,
leaving nothing but a puddle.
The people we were
staring, looking at the mess.

The rest of my strength
supports your arch,
the curled wick that's grown tired
against my chest.
No matter how you lay,
I am comfortable in your wild stretch.
Sleep surrounding both of us—
I have your back, your heart.
The crisp edges of your hair tangled
On my head

The smoke of desire soots and breathes,
dried in a puddle of wax

Butterflies,
With their delicate wings,
Flap laces and blessings of new dreams
And ventures,
Through the silence and murmur of voices.
They show up uninvited—
Not for the vows, not for the ceremony,
Or the reception.
They’re just free, in their own little world,
A good omen of nature’s poetry.
Playing with their cousins,
No longer tied, held hostage in anyone’s stomach,
They flutter through the words
Not bound by expectation or vow.
As small and fragile as they are,
They remember the things we do not—
All the things we act out and rehearse,
And still tend to forget,
They do naturally.
Like crashing a family wedding,
As a simple reminder:
That the best things in life land
Where they will,
No matter if it’s a dress, a car,
A hat, or a heart

Call it women’s intuition—
but she knows the power of silence,
how to bend you to her will,
whether she’s calm or not.
Eventually, you’ll crack,
if given enough time.
Trying to figure out what’s wrong,
following her from room to room,
asking question after question—
whether you’re crazy now
or crazy later,
it’s soon to happen.
Oddly enough,
the various cigarette and liquor companies
profit from her silence—
the way, even at your best,
it still finds a way to get your attention.
Even if you manage to block her out,
bringing it up at another time is just an argument.
It’s best to take a minute and get yourself together.
no matter what you do.
You can’t trust the way she stares,
you can’t trust the way she laughs.
It’s all a trap.
You won’t realize it until it’s too late.
Through her messiness,
through her beauty,
through her chaos,
She just wants to see how you’ll react,
if you’ll reach for her,
even when she’s right in front of you

You handed over the pieces
of your life without hesitation
your breath, your time,
your love,
because that’s what you thought love was.
Not once did you think to keep
anything for yourself.
You reached in and revealed
these pieces of yourself over time,
wrapping them in your skin,
your time, your love.

I didn’t need all the pieces
that you gave me
those you gave because you thought it was love.
I won’t let you do it.
I cannot.
Regardless of how much you give,
if I am hungry, I will not take
without replenishing what is given.
If I am thirsty, I will not bathe
in what is excess.

I, too, will hand over the pieces
of my life,
because, as hard as it is to accept,
the truth is we do not truly own anything.
just enough to feel the space
where the years seem to fly by.
Something that connects us both.
You handed over the pieces
of your life,
and I promise to care for and love them,
because I believe it’s something you just do.
Just as I believe in welcoming you
to live and breathe in the pieces of my life.
I too will live, breathe, and drown
in you

Hunger changes everything.
Although everyone and everything has intention,
hunger is no different, no matter what it's for.
Your heart, an apple dangling from a branch
I could not reach until I became hungry.
It became the object not just of affection,
but of my appetite.
I wanted not only to bite into it,
but to savor what makes you, you.
I reached until I grabbed it,
the apple that is your heart.
No matter how the branch swayed,
I was determined.

Under any other circumstance,
I would not have touched it,
maintaining composure when it came to
the apple of your heart.
Overthinking myself out of what could have been
one of the most beautiful things,
feeling unworthy,
until hunger made me notice you more.
Want turned to craving,
and I realized that the most precious things
erode and disappear over time.
Half smiling, yet anticipating change,
I know that, in time, I, too, will erode
remembering how sweet you were,
inviting me to quench
not just my hunger, but my thirst.
After a while, it wasn’t about hunger at all.
I just wanted to be close to you

She stands in the shower.
Running her wash cloth across
Her body.
the slow rise of *******,
the arch of hips,
the curve of a neck.
The day she's had
Swirls around the drain
Between the space of her toes.
All that's left is the smell of soap.
Against her skin.
Her washcloth is not as white as it was.
She lets out a sigh.
Letting the hot water crash
Against her body.
Ringing it out before 
Soaping up the rag again.
Her body becoming softer.
Erasing every touch, every stare
That isn't her own.
Vigorously scrubbing.
The remnants of soap drip
Down her legs.
I knock on the door before
Poking my head in to check on
Her.
She hangs her head out with a smile.
The smell of soap and water
Glisten off of her light skin.
Before she closes the curtain back,
I ask if she needs help washing her
Back

You and I are just like the moon
Quiet,
waiting for the world to fall asleep.
Regardless of distance,
we just are.

Anticipation makes everything seem that much further,
especially the ache of things we cannot name.
Things that we cannot control.
As close as it seems,
space lengthens while we're awake.

Maybe that's why we surround ourselves with dark things
so that when we open our eyes,
we can think of a name
for how much we miss each other,
Other than silence.
Something that fills the space
While we think

She keeps this beast  
Locked inside,  
Feeding it wine
To settle it down.  
When you look at her,  
She looks like she has it  
All together.  
But nobody really knows
What it's like.  
To stay up half the night,  
Clawed from the inside out.
It terrifies her.
Most days she doesn't say a word
And keeps to herself.
To the one she loves,  
If she reveals those pieces  
Of herself,  
Will you stay? Will you go?  
Like everything else that  
She’s lost.
She drinks to keep herself at peace,  
To keep the beast
from growling too loud.  
And for a minute, she forgets about  
Those broken pieces that didn’t  
Heal quite right.
That it's okay to breathe.
Even if it's for a minute.

If you’re reading this,  
She’s afraid  
To let you in.  
That once you’re in,  
You’ll smell those rotten parts  
That hide behind her eyes,
Or that you’ll hear the toenails screech  
Of the beast she keeps subdued,  
That you’ll realize it’s not  
A beast at all.
It’s the part of her that realizes  
The possibility that you cannot  
Love her, without loving the beast.
Those not so good pieces of herself.
Those frazzled insecure pieces
That despite everything she cannot
Control.
And in the end,  
She’ll regret it all if you turn around
And walk away.
No matter how strong the cage.
One of those bars loosens
Everytime she stares at you

Maybe that's love
the space that exists between things,
the reason there are gaps
between our fingers.
Between everything.
I'd never been good at using chopsticks.
I'd always drop them trying to grip
something heavy,
something more substantial.
One stick would go left, the other
would go right,
making a mess of everything.

Rice was easy.
But then again, maybe that's how love works.
snapping between the space of things,
Because she could pick them up
and use them, no problem.

It kind of changes your perspective
when you're hungry and can't eat
how you want to eat.
Rice is good, but I wanted something a bit heartier.
Something me and my clumsy
hands could enjoy.
She'd laugh,
chowing down on her noodles,
all tangled and twisted up.
It came naturally to her.
Me, I just couldn't get it.
The more we sat,
the more I craved something
Other than rice.
I craved her heart.
Steady, patient.
I didn't know how to hold her
But one day I'll learn how

You sting my tongue,
steam rising fresh from your bed
heavy in all the right ways.
You're not that hard to make,
yet I am too tired to cook.

You sit in my belly,
the way you taste still swirling around my mouth.
No matter how much you satisfy,
there is always room for you.
Your eyes, red and spicy,
the slow burn of how you spread
through my body.

Yet, I'm still too tired to cook.
I don’t want to over-season you,
the reality of part of you
becoming burnt edges on a ***.
I don’t want to waste a single inch of you,
nor the space that you fill.

I want all of you inside of me,
even if part of you is burnt

One day,
there won't be a knock
or a call to announce where I am.
I'll walk across your ribs,
towards the light of your heart,
to a door that swings wide open
to a place where I am welcome,
a place that I've earned the right to be.

It takes courage to open your home
to someone.
Each room held up by boards
of trust.
your head, your mouth,
an attic filled with old memories,
fondled by silence,
as patient as you are.
I would never evoke your wrath.
As sturdy as those boards are,
I know they still creak,
eager to lash out.
Not in vain, but out of protection.

If one day that is the case,
I will accept it,
for it is not just your heart
but all of you that is my home.
And if something is broken,
we'll work to fix and repair
what is torn apart.

Here, in you, I am home.
And I will take care of every part
of you.
One day,
there won't be a knock
or a call to announce where I am,
because you'll already know.
I wouldn't accept your key
if I weren't absolutely sure
that I wanted to call you home

Most things in life happen to be a contradiction
odd as it sounds, especially
when it comes to the things we love.
They have a way of crunching us down
and breaking us open.
There aren’t many things that get us,
but of the few that do,
I’m glad that you’re one of them.

The way the salt blends perfectly with your skin,
even when you’re cold. You’re crisp, sometimes moist.
Every moment can't be as perfect as the last,
but I think that’s what makes us, us
the things that happen in between the things we like,
and the way we get along with the things
we never thought we would.

Like drizzling you in bits of chocolate,
even though it’s dark
it brings out the pieces of you
that you try to hide beneath the warm,
fried parts of you that everyone sees.
Odd as it sounds, your salt with my sweet
you get me just like I get you,
tangled in a convulsion of warmth.

There’s something about the way that you crunch
that makes me reach my hand out for more

She is the poem I never wrote,
but always wanted to write.
The poem I’d sit down with,
every intention of writing,
but could not come up with
the right words.
Sweet, but fierce.
Discarding perfection,
only asking for presence.
A flower that learned to survive
in a drought.

She is a poem that takes
the pieces of herself and
arranges them in love.
Not the loving pieces easily
found in the light
that’s too easy.
But the pieces that accidentally
wandered in the dark and got lost.
The pieces of herself she forgot
were there.
She takes her time,
finding these pieces and putting them
back where they belong.

When she speaks,
her tongue is like a hammer,
hammering every nail that needs
to be put into place.
Even if she misses and, instead,
hits her hand,
she doesn’t tear everything down
regardless of how much it may benefit her.
She repositions herself
and starts again.

She is the poem I never wrote,
but always wanted to write.
As hard as it is to start again,
she’s never afraid to start again

Take the scissors,  
And cut around the edges of my heart.  
Don't worry about how it looks.  
Fold whatever part of me  
That you need to make the first cut.  
I'd be surprised if you find any part  
Of me that's folded neat.  
The kaleidoscope of construction  
Paper that is me.  
  
I consider myself a collection  
Of scars and different colors—  
Of the things that I like and dislike.  
Even the wrinkled pieces of myself  
I've forgotten about.  
You've brought light to those pieces  
With each snip of your scissors.  
I've noticed how quiet and content  
You've become.  
  
You cut, and I bleed in color—  
Purple, blue, and yellow.  
Of all the shapes you've cut,  
None of them are painful.  
Watching you mix up the different color pieces of my soul,  
Your love, the stick glue that  
Gives these pieces more functionality.  
  
I breathe easier, knowing that you're here.
No longer restricted  
By stagnant stillness.  
You can even fold them into an  
Airplane and sail across the room.  
I haven’t had this much fun  
In a long time.
Don't forget the scrap pieces

Here we hang,
dressed in our very best.
When someone walks past,
we hold our breath,
hoping that someone notices.

The lights blink all around us,
the flicker of warmth in cheap
plastic bulbs.
The tree shakes us awake
every time we think that we’re
about to go to sleep.

We tremble enough as it is,
being this close to each other.
I look forward to Thanksgiving.
normally, that’s when the tree
comes out, as well as the garland.
Soon after, I get a chance to hang by you,
seamlessly doing nothing.

Though we hang on hooks,
it cannot replace the feeling
of being next to you
our reflection mirroring one another.
Even if no one else notices,

soon after Christmas,
we go back into our boxes,
until the same time next year.
While we’re here,
I wanted to let you know
that I cherish these times.

Seamlessly hanging with you,
doing nothing.
Every moment an ornament
falls and crashes into the ground.
I don’t want that to be the case
between us
until we are cracked and dull.

I enjoy the time I spend beside you,
even if there isn’t anything to do
but hang in anticipation,
until next year

Sometimes I love my reflection.  
Other times, he's just a bad friend—fixing his lips like he's about to interrupt me before I get my thought out good.  
When I stop speaking, so does he.  
What do you expect? He's me. ****.  
In truth, the bills are paid, and all current business is handled. But something is missing. It’s obvious. He just looks and shakes his head—my reflection.  
I'd be lying if I said I didn't care.  
I've gotten used to the silence that follows me. It's peaceful.  
When I make it home after a long day, if I touch something, I know where it is.  
If I cook something, I know there's more, even if I don't eat it all.  
He sits back and watches all of this.  
My reflection. Half the time, I pay him no mind. Sometimes, it's better that way.  

But sometimes, I wouldn't mind a bit of noise

She struck me  
out of the blue,  
the way that most beautiful songs  
find you.  
It plays out of nowhere,  
normally when you're out and about—  
one foot out the door,  
slipping through the holes  
of a random speaker.  
Before I knew, I was nodding  
my head.  
It's already full of things  
that don't matter.  
My head and the thoughts
That go through it.
Her voice cuts through all of that,  
a song you want to know the name of,  
so you can hear it again—  
one that you hope doesn't end too soon,  
but still delicate enough to not  
notice when she tips away.  
She's a song,  
a uniquely beautiful woman  
that you notice before she walks  
away.  

There's not enough in the world  
that makes sense.  
She pulls me in and confesses  
that she's just like me—  
the way that most beautiful songs do.  
I knew that I would chase her  
before she walked away.

I’ve waited so long to talk to you.
I’ve messaged you and have waited
to hear back from you.
I am still waiting.
At this point, time isn’t a factor.
Even if I never hear anything,
I still will wait.

The closest I get to you now
is an algorithm.
Social media suggests you
as a new friend.
As much as I would love that—
to start over and pretend,
as painful as it sounds,
to love you in restriction,
trapped by some border,
like we’re strangers.

I stare at your picture and never
swipe the notification away.
In a way, it feels like old times.
The only thing missing is your voice.
You’re with me when I go to work,
you’re with me when I am in the car.
But nothing lasts forever.
By the time I wake up,
the notification is gone,
the screen is empty,
and you’re gone.

But your eyes—
the way that you smile—
have not left my memory.

I suppose I should be satisfied
with what I have now.
I’ve tried,
but I am not

When I am around you,
I feel heavy.
Everything that normally bothers me
isn't a concern anymore.
Not that it's not there,
it just softens
a whole lot.
In fact, everything softens
when I am around you.

In time, even blankets can warm
the coldest of beds,
and that's what you are to me;
a blanket so thick,
you just fall into it and sink,
You drape across me.
Your breath filling the air of my ears,
warm, soft
one of the best blankets I've been
wrapped up in my whole life.

After a few minutes, I am asleep
inside you.
My bones, my worries,
everything fades away.
Your warmth, my everything

There are many clothes in the world
that you can try on today
be it designer brand name or not,
that can fit on a clothing rack.
Just because something is made
doesn’t mean that you must fit it,
or the expectation of wearing it.

Not everything is going to fit.
Not everything is going to be your size,
including emotions.

Nothing good comes from waiting
for someone else’s approval.
If someone sees you,
let them see you for the remarkable
beauty that you are.


No matter if you mix and match,
or if you have on the full set.
Even if you see someone wearing
their emotions, and it’s the type of person
you want to be,
there is nothing wrong with trying something on.
But don’t get mad if it doesn’t fit.
It may not be the right time for you right now.

There is power in letting go.
There is also power in walking away.
There is no need to pretend that you’re less than
trying to keep up with a trend.
There is a lot of power in letting go,
and finding all the beautiful things
that you were meant to be

She unravels herself like a rose  
In the palm of my hand.  
Some of her petals break off  
And lay to the side
The pain of growth,  
Making room for something new.  

She looks me in the eye,  
The tension of letting go  
Of reasonable fear.  
Too many lonely nights.  
The crescent moon of every lie  
Hovers over her head.  

Piece by piece,  
She's laid that insecurity in my hands,  
That uncertainty in her eyes,  
Slowly turning into trust.  
Seeing that I didn’t discard  
The pieces of her that flaked off,  
In my hands.  
Regardless of how bad they look,  
They are a part of her.  

She twists and she turns,  
Her thorns piercing my skin,  
One after another.  
With confidence, I don’t have to tell her  
That I am not afraid.  
But I do so anyway.  

The crescent moon that hangs  
Above her head fills out  
And becomes full.  
As comfortable as she seems,  
Fear still lingers.  
No matter how much she  
Lets go,  
She's been let down before.  

In time, my hands will become  
A vase that will protect her from harm,  
And my heart a place  
That will warm her always.  
When the day comes she knows,  
With certainty, that I am not afraid,  
I will still tell her
I am not afraid