i dared to reach through the pockets of my jeans
only to find my phone
our song suddenly played and your name popped up on the screen
i hastily blinked my eyes, pushing back the tears, locking them all away

pressing declined, i've had enough lies
i can see it all seeping right through your teeth

as you turn your back and started to walk away from where i stand
salty drops trailed down my face
my love for you flows to my veins
but yours began to vanish like the waves

i wrote you
a letter every day
letters to tell you
just how i feel

written in neat, curved
writing i told you
just how sweet
i thought you were
how you made my heart
glow

letters in which i wrote
with various colors of ink
pouring out my whole being
to you

i wrote you
a letter every day.

i wrote you letters in which
i told you how you made me
bloom.

eventually
i found myself
pressing harder on
the paper
than i had before.

creating tears in them
similar in shape
and size
as the ones
inside of me.

i began to send
letters
with creases
and bumps
and stains
splattered with tears

pouring
from my eyes

as i wrote
the anger
bubbling within me.

my last letter
addressed to you
contained
no words

but was blank.
because
i had none that

could reach
as far

and deep

into the cracks
of my
heart

to describe
just
what you

had left
of me.

seated at the backseat with our song on repeat
she reached for a stick inside the back pocket of her faded denim jeans
i heard a familiar flick sound
only to see a lighter on her hand
silence fell upon us
not knowing what to say, i glanced around
trying to find an excuse not to continue to blatantly stare at her
still, she is all i see through my peripheral vision
savoring the smoke,
letting it all fill her lungs
puffing,
inhaling
yes, a stick could **** sooner or later
if no one dares to stop her
but what if she's already dying inside? or what if she's just doing this to fight the demon who made its way inside her soul?
chained her heart,
no plan of letting it go
i may have seen her burned her throat countless times already
yet, it still feels like the first time her thin lips pressed against the filter
how i wish it was my lips, instead...

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

as i bleed my heart out on this keyboard
you instantly flashed in my mind
my face in between your large hands, as you started to lean forward making our forehead's touch

i do not write for you,
i write about you
more importantly, the little things you do
like how you rests your hand, particularly your right hand on my thigh or how you'd take mine and press them against your chest while whispering to me how much they made your heart race

i remember how childish of us to pass a stupid crumpled note
back and forth
just to exchange i love you's
but i love to watch that smile slowly stretches across your plump lips

we're tangled in the sheets, strong arms wrapped around me
it certainly felt like home
your scent sinks deeper into my skin
i hope you don't see my hands reaching out just to touch yours

i'm running out of words
i think you have given me enough to write about that even flowers grew on paper