Overall,
The experience of ordinary and blatant sadness
Was an outlet of disconjoined thoughts.
Some sort of wall put up against a garden of insecurity,
Vaguely jumping at the opportunity of embittered troubles.
Maybe if you can’t see the stars
You’ll finally understand what its like to lose your way,
And utilize the forgiveness that was once embraced.
More or less like the birds that stayed in the bitterness,
And forgot the weight of their bodies.
Nothing can bear it.
You are not an open wound,
And the stale taste you experience
Is not the taste of bad blood.
This is about you walking away
With darkness in your voice.
Realizing that perhaps there was nothing more terrifying
Than the thought of something lurking in the shadows,
And in speculation
There was never anything there.
The simple way your hair falls on your open shoulders
Is a reminder to never be ashamed of how the world treated you.
Remember,
It tries to balance too many uncultured skulls,
And painfully neglects the opened minded
While trying to fix its very own mistakes.
Like a hand I extend mine,
Similar to brainwaves, to feel if it is real.
And every night I sleep
Less and less
Knowing that this knowledge is going to the ungrateful.
Beautiful things don't ask for attention.
But my mind has always been open.

They say butterflies do not appear in Venice
But I saw one.
In the hot heat of summer,
Past the rickety abandoned homes
While passing through yet another alley
Of vintage clothing shops.
It flew and fluttered in a fragile nature
Right past my head and
Strangers overlooked it,
But I marveled in its beauty while
They talked about the bridges that were
Under our feet and the
Gondolas that ventured past us.
They say this and that but
I fail to listen because
This and that simply means nonsense
Because I saw one.
In that moment he was there
Whispering sweet Italian lullabies
In my ear
La mia piccola farfalle.
And I felt at home
From hundreds of miles away.
They say butterflies do not appear in Venice
But I saw one.

and there was always something about the perpetual silence that rang through the room as i bit down on my lip looking at him lopsided. they were always slightly chapped in the middle,
and when i smiled through small, notorious breaths,
i tasted blood from bitter winters.
there was something about aligned spines and hands along hourglasses and snickers that broke the silence of tremendous distribution of headache.
isn't it funny to realize that somebody may have just slightly exceeded your complication?  
i’ve watched the sunlight filter and fade out through the blinds covering my windows for too many days alone and i wonder if the rays look so much more beautiful casting over his room. 
i feel shoulder blades and hipbones burning and itching into a dull generic hallucination, entranced by the idea that maybe in the back of your mind you ignore my bumps and scratches.
i never told him that i wanted to memorize every inch of his skin and that maybe he'd forgive me for flinching when he ran his fingers over where my side meets my hips.
i promise that i love the feel of you against my skin, i’m not shivering out of fear.
i don't want to write about how every time he touched me, vacancy of ribcages took flight.
and i didn't want him to know that i sat up with him counting his heartbeat when he slept.
his eyes flutter underneath softer skin and i thought it was beautiful.  
his lip curves upward slightly more in one direction and i loved the way knees had always buckled.
he reminded me that i exist in a world where people like him live and it gives me strange senses of perpetual hope.
i wish i had the willpower of august and the submission of february, but you are not a kitchen sink and i am not a dresser drawer
and sometimes it aches indescribably to know that i've kissed the sea and coming home hasn't been the popular option.
now these days i can no longer tell if the heartbeat i hear is yours or mine
and i do not want to be able to distinguish between the sound.
you breathe i breathe.
some people are just tiny little pin ****** in the backs of our minds and others, hand grenades the size of fists leaving bits and pieces of confusion plastered around like disheveled skulls.
i would bathe you in the breath from my lungs and i would wash you clean of all things made from yesterday, and i swear that
i am in love with you.