I am a psychic
A terrible teller of time

For I can see
a whole future
with you, a lifetime
Yet I cannot even
imagine,
What our next moment
will hold

he is a shadow of you,
I catch glimpses of you
in his words, his touch,
but he is not you,
you decided to leave
he wants to stay,
the only difference is
I would rather be
burned by the sun,
than safe in the shadows.

The dress wears the woman
She needs to be confident
Stand tall, chin up
That is how they pick you

You think you decided to twirl,
That was the gown
She wants to be shown off
She wants to dance

The crowd does not adore you
You are no one
A pretty face, a slim figure
That dress, she is the star

Now twirl.

When I asked him what he was thinking,
he said nothing.

He can do that apparently,
just sit there, relaxing.
His mind a calm sea.

I am always thinking.
I cannot stop.

Waves and waves of thoughts,
always attacking me.
I fear one day, I might drown.

I think of pain,
as a mouse.
It finds it's way into
your home, your heart.
And you try everything
to get rid of him.
Set all the traps.
The mouse simply
avoids them.
He finds a corner,
never seen or heard.
We forget it is there.
Make peace.
Then one day,
something happens
to bring it out.
A ripe cheese.
A photo.
And the cycle repeats.

The only objects
I have ever felt
true attachments to,
are my books.
They are so much
more than ink, paper, and leather.
When they are lost,
I lose a memory.
I lose who I was when I read that story.
Stay with me I know that sounds silly.
For example, I lost my copy of Twilight.
A trivial novel, maybe.
But when I lost that book,
I lot the 13 year old girl
who fantasized about her own
vampire romance. Or any romance.
And some might say good riddance
to those foolish fantasies.
But every now and then when
my mere mortal romances are too much,
I'd love to pick up  Twilight,
re-read and imagine my own vampire boyfriend,
sweeping me off my feet.
When I lose my books, I lose that opportunity
to escape.
If only for a little while.

I have never wanted someone the way I want you.
I want you in every form.
Give me all the pieces of yourself that you don't let others see.
Let me be the one you can trust with your heaviest burdens.
Give me all of you in the dark.
Let me be the one who unravels you,
please give me everything. I want it all.
And in return, all of me,
is yours.

What if we,
could love
while we sleep?

Meet in our
dreams,
be a tangle
of limbs and bodies.

Then wake
the same way
in the morning.

Never missing a moment.

i am starting to think of him, as my sun.
things are brighter when he is there.
there is more life and light in my life.
when he is gone, it may be a bit darker,
but i have always loved the glow of the moon.
i still need my solitude, my time to be myself.
you have to love both the moon and the sun.
and the stars, the stars of course.
if i am the moon and he is the sun,
my friends and family are my stars.
my ***** of fire that surround me with heat, life, love.
we all fit you see.
with them i am me.
but with him, i shine.
you need the sun to survive, and life is better, life is life.
but you need the time with the moon and stars to appreciate the day.
it all strikes a balance.
i am not sure if i am making sense here with my jumbled similes and metaphors of my own personal universe of relationships.
but just know he has become my sun.
and who knows, it could explode.
scorching everything in its path,
there goes the universe.
but for now, we have day and night and life.
and if it goes down in flames, it was still there.
and a new universe can form from the remnants.

is it selfish for me to hold on just a little longer?
so that when I lose him,
and I will lose him,
I know I am losing all of him.
So that I know,
we had no other choice.

you are the fruit on the table,
but I am the artist.
I take what you are, and
enhance. not just red no,
I give you white, green,
add the sun, the shadows,
the streaks. make the fruit,
more than itself.

you are the subject,
but honey I am the painter.
everyone knows,
a masterpiece,
never makes themselves.

He wants to read my poems,
he wants to see what
I have written about him.
I wonder why I am so scared
for him to see my thoughts
laid bare with no filters.
Maybe because I still have that fear
that he will run away
once he realizes how real this is.

I fear I am losing him,
to himself.

He is seeing all the things he wants to be.
I wonder when he'll realize,

that version of himself,
might not want me.

Usually, when he
touches me, I
pull away

Today,
I leaned in
held on

My breath
became
thin

My stomach,
dropped,
tightened

It was as if
he was always
meant to be there

I wish I knew
what that
means

It is different with him, simpler.
He is just him and I am just me.
And we are just together.
There is no force.
It is refreshing.

I do not think home is a yellow house on a plain street.
I do not think home is the people in it either.
I do not think home is a town, or state, or country.
I do not think home is another person.
Home is not a building.
Home is not land.
Home is not them.
None of these things, are permanent.
Buildings fall,
Land dissapears,
People leave.
Home is not now, home is always.
Never leaving.
Home is a person. One person.
You. Yourself.
You are your own home.
Love it with everything you have.

I am scared of
love, loneliness, and failure

I fear that after being
loved, and losing it,

The loneliness will
drown me

And that failure,
will stain everything

the best poems, are
the ones that feel like
a punch to the chest.

they leave you
stunned, for a moment.
blinking.

i love him in way
that let's me love myself,
and that is everything

Makeup is an art.
Confidence is life changing.
Friends can be cruel.
Unconditional love is real.
Music is food for the soul.
Dance is prayer for the body.
Age can be insignificant.
Breakfast dates create an unbreakable bond.
Movies are best in bed with cozy blankets.
Car rides are made for singing.
Love is messy.
Families fight.
Families forgive.
Forever friendship, exists.