Her eyes were made of stars,
And yours, a black hole.
Whenever she looks at you
She sees her own death.

In or out,
Don't step on the line.
I am not a door with broken hinges.

Throw me out
Or pull me in.
Time is at risk, don't keep me in between.

Black and white,
Like ink and paper.
The obvious things you have yet to discover.

I was born with the night sky painted upon me,
Rivers of stars flow across my cheeks.
Your beloved sunlight stings a bit too much;
Even your shadow is a glittering navy blue silk...
I am still scratching out bits of it from my skin.

Tear-stained floor,
Ceilings burn from my gaze.
Why can't I make someone stay?

May I ask if for just one moment,
Even just an innocent split-second in your life when you were free from all your reasons and all the history you've been carrying with you,
If for just that one moment before you let those things take over most of who you are,
Did you love me?

"In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain
the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
and still, and still, you have not written the poem."

- Jorge Luis Borges

I did. All forty-five of it, with one person sneaking in between every line like waves persistently knocking on shores.

These poems will never meet the eyes of the one who guided my hands; the one who sung the melody to which my words danced.

You have conquered me.
You set me on fire
And it's the kind of fire I'm almost willing to keep,
Only it stings a bit too much.