A blaze behind the eyes,
Fire on the tongue.
The weight where spine meets skull,
That Atlas’ burden stone.

That sickly hollow of the stomach,
Begging phrases be thrown like fists
And punches like poetry.

They attempt to speak.
Shavings of iron pour from tender lips
Cutting, ripping, wrecking.
They fall to the ground, heavy with blood.

Their mouths shut tight, that those daggers might not again tear at their tongues.

I am ill with want, longing to fill the emptiness.

It’s a shame, this hole is shaped like you.

I patiently wait for new words to come.

All those I owned, you stole from me. Gathered them up in your arms and walked away without apology. You left me speechless, words no longer begging to be written, thoughts no longer desiring to be shared.

I patiently wait for new words to come.

It’s the strangest thing, love.
Everyone has their way
To define it,
To feel it,
To show it,
To gain it,
To lose it,
To want it.

As for me, you’ve shown me all of these,
Because if I don’t love you

Then I don’t know what love is yet.

If it isn’t thinking of you in the cracks between moments and the most important hours, as I fall asleep, I dream, and I wake

If it isn’t reaching for your hand even when I know I won’t find it in the darkness of my bedroom

If it isn’t finding the scent of you on my clothes and remembering the taste of your lips on mine

If it isn’t praying for your smile regardless of the price I have to pay for it

If it isn’t my chest tightening every time I think of you in someone else’s arms

If it isn’t cursing to the sky when you’d rather have someone else

Then I don’t know what love is,

Yet.

My life reduced to these journals,
Their coffee-stained pages
Bleeding unrequited love.

I wanted to sleep, I swear.
But I stared at the sky,
Waiting for lightning.