I tell him that three of his freckles disappeared today and that I can’t help but notice that his eye twitches twice before he falls asleep.
He sometimes wakes up to an empty bed at 2 in the morning. It is not because I can’t feel comfortable with his legs tangled in mine but, because I found the sight of not knowing where my body ended and his began so poetic.  
Some days, I feel as if I’m living life in the shadows. Always noticing but never seen, are words supposed to scream this loud?
He says that when we kiss, he has to dust the commas and colons off of my eyelid and that he repeats his sentences four times because he knows that during the first I was catching a thought, preventing it from flying away and that when he speaks for the second I’m trying to take notice of the exact degree he tilts his head and that by the third I’ve already crafted a stanza about the way he licks his lips in the cold.
I tell myself that I will not carry a pen wherever I go, but it doesn’t matter because on certain days, even my bone marrow writes poetry about the cells dying and being born in my blood – supernovae of molecule scale.
My brother tells me that my quadratic equations are written in limerick form and that he does not know why I’m taking Calculus and Statistics if I already know a formula for the perfect novel.
The truth is, I don’t know why I notice the way my love wrings his hands twice when I ask him where he’s been – is that lavender I smell?
I know that he tells me the truth, but the other voice in my head can’t help but make me ask him why he drank his coffee with milk instead of creamer today.
He tells me that he loves me by holding me far too tight when I’m sad, so that he can crush the blue out of me and by barely touching me when I’m happy, afraid that he’ll break my spirits, he knows that my pink is a Porcelain Doll – fragile.
*He doesn’t use any words, and for once, this is enough for me.

I'll be the pyramids you'll be the sky

The clothing shorn
In wasteland we are born

Where do we go now
Forgotten places
Forgotten time

Love and love me not
Wilted flowers and lost thoughts

The radio is in the street
Columns creaking in defeat
We're feeding ourselves to the fire
Injecting dreams
self dissonance

We walk in the desert calling it home
In fire born
In wasteland
The clothes are shorn

I'll be the sky you'll be the pyramids

Patterns spiral on
like the hands of a clock.
My mind dissects the mechanism
to learn where I fit in.
I fear if I should find myself,
then I shall be forgot.
Where will I fit in?
Sometimes I scour the walls of my room
desperately searching for where I fit in,
If I lost count of all my lovers
& my very dearest friends.
I'd always be waiting for the bottom to drop
& wondering where I fit in.
Twelve moons have passed
with you
& I do not know where I fit in.
Like twelve years ago
in school,
I did not know where I fit in.
The twelfth I shall pack to travel North,
a brief moment of time to fit everyone in
to a world where people love me
precisely because I stand out.

we play house.
he makes us coffee
and
i wear his shirts.

we play house.
he drinks his feelings
and
i stare at the ceiling while he sleeps.

we play house*.