To care for others more than yourself in a world full of egocentric individuals is not living.

You were my flashlight, but I am no longer afraid of the dark.

My eyes were an ocean of emotions I battled against everything to hide them,
and I tried to tame the Pacific into the Dead Sea.
You asked me what was wrong,
you had absolutely no idea,
if you only looked.
My eyes had screamed I love you too many times,
but you never took the second to look at me in the eyes.

I've spent restless nights writing poems to and about you with heavy eyelids; poems you'll never read, poems I'll never have the guts to let you read, poems you'll never even know about.
I've described every single part, perk, quality of you with the most beautiful words I can find in the dictionary because you don't deserve simple, ordinary words.
Even your flaws are beautiful.
And still, I cannot string any of the million words in any language together to describe you or my love for you perfectly.
And I write about you like you sank your paintbrush in a cup of universe and created hundreds of galaxies; like you placed the stars in the sky, neatly arranged them into beautiful constellations.
Here is yet another poem for and about you, written with eyelids as  heavy as the ocean at 3:36 in the morning, after deciding there was no way I could sleep as my mind was still awake and thinking about you- as always.

i cannot explain this bitter feeling of feeling like you are being forgotten, like you don't exist for a moment to the person that you name stars after and all I know is that it eats you from the inside out starting with emptiness filling the stomach, a dull pain in the heart and making its way to the mind, filling it with cyanide.
it makes its way to the eyes and rivers spill (if they haven't poured out already) and it keeps you from feeling the least bit cheerful enough to do anything.
all you know it that you loathe yourself for not being intriguing enough for them to at least spend treasured seconds of such relatively short life to send a good night message when more than just dear seconds of your relatively short life turn into minutes; minutes turn into hours to ponder and puzzle, to overthink and look for keys that are not there.
i cant explain this poisonous feeling of not feeling enough for a person that sparks metaphors and poetry that will not be read by a single soul, not even reread yourself.
and this is where you crave another body, another soul, some peculiar and truly fascinating pair of eyes.
you sink yourself lower and lower than you accustom to until rivers turn into oceans and you hit the Mariana Trench.
your insides have tightened, your eyes have iced and you cannot feel a thing.
you just want to have the honor of reaching every corner and junction of that person's brain all twenty-four hours of the day like they linger in yours.
you want to have your eyes compared to at least shining stars like you compare theirs to galaxies, to dedicate at least precious seconds of their such a lightning life to you, just like you dedicate beloved hours to them.

Heart of a thousand galaxies,
newborn and dying stars,
a variety of planets,
bandaged faults,
sunrises and sunsets,
occasional shooting stars,
blooming flowers,
the song of a bird,
the smell of rain,
dark, unexplored depths of the ocean.

Eyes of explosions of blues,
crashing, wavering seas,
fierce hurricanes,
and a mirror reflecting
my heart and rarely,
my brain.

You are a child of the Universe,
bright as the stars in the sky,
alive as the flowers on a meadow,
tall as a tree in a forest,
changing as the waves,
radiant as the sun,
no lesser than ground and the rocks,
the clouds or the snow.

You are a child of the Universe,
holding the landscape along your frame,
the ocean as your eyes; revolting and fierce,
the meadow blooming as your hair,
tree branches as your arms,
and your roots are your mom and dad.

I used to be scared of thunderstorms, but I fell deeply for one. I used to hate the lighting striking when I least expect it, now it had found a way to get a hold of my heart. Things change, but never completely; I still found and overwhelming amount to comfort when I got to the eye of the storm and I had always loved the rain. Not everyone can get to the eye, and the times I did and still do, I've felt very lucky to.
Our relationship was never pink, we argued more than being cliché, even when we were happy, we would argue. But even so, I didn't need to hear the exact I love you, we were not like that either. You would say "you're such a *****", and I would say, "and you're an *******"; you would smile, and I would too because that was enough. It screamed I love you louder than any "I love you, boo" would. We loved passionately yet fought furiously.
And after all the times I tried figuring out what we had, asking myself why we weren't like every couple out there, realization hit me at 2:00 a.m. in the morning. I didn't want to be like everybody else because you loved me truly and I loved you endlessly. There would be times you hurt me, and I hurt you too, but the love was enough to cover.
You're a thunderstorm and I wouldn't change it for a thing, not even for the stars and the galaxies out there, or the fields of flowers around the land, not even the salty top to bottom of the sea, all the riches of the world, or the key to heaven.

I hate feeling upset after you joke about having lots of girls,
I detest having to be too self-conscious to have that bother me late at night.
I hate to see other girls look at you, wanting to be yours, and even though you shrug them off and spin your head at them,
I despise to think what if one day you'll follow their game, what if they captivate you?
What if you see something much more special and get bored of me?
What if someday, another set of eyes captivate you more than mine?
I hate it when you get mad at me for being this self-conscious, for doubting you,
I loathe that it's my fault because you don't do anything wrong to bring me lack of faith and get me paranoid,
I abhor having to bother you this way.

It's been so long, hundreds of hours that I've last seen those dark, brown eyes.
My mind's picture of them has lately, simply just blurred,
but the world has sharpen up.
I can finally tell the difference between the people hurrying down the streets of the city,
and suddenly, the world doesn't seem so black and white.
I can finally, perfectly see other eye colors
apart from that only shade of dark, brown.
And I woke up from my at-last-dreamless slumber,
realization hit me hard exactly seventeen minutes after-
my thoughts had abandoned you.