Lighting a candle before my bedside,
I slip a small piece of my past
underneath the brass holder
to catch the waxy overflow.

A pink envelope addressed to
(my love)
encases the torn and tattered teardrop-filled
piece of stationery paper.

Your words mush together with the
slight scent of beeswax and sage
and my mind wanders off to an unknown place

3 am:
Awaking to the smell of
an almost-smoke
burning my nostrils

burning my curtains
Is this what it was like
loving me?

Loving you was an ongoing river
each rush getting away from me
the second I felt it
while the rocks, the biggest burdens,
stay in place,
unmoved, unsolved

The light of the candle flickers
as I watch the fiery masterpiece
flow over the room

I lit the candle before my bedside.
I knew the consequences,
repercussions
of loving you.

What I love about you floats through my head,
and I realize that every moment I’ve ever loved has transpired in your bed.

A lot has happened there, in your room with the dark shades:
talking, crying, laughing, sweating, screaming—all in your bed.

The same things over and over, better and better,
Each time we would lie there, together, in your bed.

Sleep is in the past, no sleep for us would last.
I don’t think I’ve ever been fully clothed in your bed.

I’d wear a lot of red, and black, for that matter,
two small pieces of cloth that were quickly lost in your bed.

I like to think about the milestones—not the ones at restaurants,
not the birthdays, nor Christmases—but the ones in your bed.

The first time you told me you loved me,
surprise, surprise: we were lying in your bed.

I miss the talks, the cries, the movies we watched,
the countless hours we spent, holding each other in your bed.

The physical—my favourite—the naughty, naughty
things we've done: I wish every one of them happened in your bed.

Some were in mine, but they didn’t fulfill the same thrill,
even in mind-blowing places, I wished we were in your bed.

Your bed is cold and hard—a place I would never want to sleep alone.
As you could have imagined: I don’t love the plain thing that is your bed.

I love that it smells like you, that it’s where you fall asleep:
these are the two things I like best about your bed.

A bed is sacred to a person and I love that you've invited me into yours.
I could imagine that you miss mine, and I miss mine too, but my bed is not your bed.

I miss you as I write—don’t get me wrong,
but the thing I want most right now is to be with you in your bed.

1,000 letters all stuffed in your mailbox,
Things I’ve thought for hours, days, even during our talks,
All of the things that haven’t left the tip of my tongue,
All of the words that float freely in my mind,
Sentences formed, ready to be spat out, but resigned,
I look into your swimming pool eyes, and I think,
“Just say it already, you can say it this time,”
But my mouth becomes dry as the summertime,
And my tongue can no longer convey.

The tip of my pen, however, is as fearless as can be,
he wrote you 1,000 letters, and I’m sorry, it’s a lot to read,
Those 1,000 letters didn’t cramp my hand for one second,
but they’re letters that I would have much rather said,
or sang, or telepathically conveyed, but I brought letters instead:
letters I didn’t want to have to write to you in the first place.