I am addicted to coffee cups and college ruled notebooks and eyes so blue that they turn grey. My veins crave wool sweaters and red cheeks and freckles and overcast skies. I wish on stars for snow and fog and thunderstorms with no lightning. I long for jeans with ripped knees and scarves and long walks in very cold weather with someone very warm. Sometimes I want you so much that I don't want anything else at all.

maybe it was just bad timing
maybe 10 years from now,
we'll meet again in one of the most cliché ways.
maybe I'll be sitting on one end of a coffee shop
and you'll be sitting at the other
and I'll be drinking coffee
and you'll be drinking anything that keeps your eyes open.
I'll see you but pretend I didn't,
I'll take the napkin that was once sitting under my coffee and place it in front of me,
I won't write down my number.
I'll write about how my coffee matches your eyes,
dark brown coffee sweetened with a little too much sugar.
I'll write about the last time I saw you,
and how you said you'd never grow any ****** hair
but now you have stubbles resembling cinnamon bun crumbs swept across your face.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll look up from my napkin, and see you looking at me.
Maybe I'll see you looking at me the way Gatsby looked at Daisy.
Or maybe you won't look at me at all.
Maybe I'll just crumple up this napkin and throw it away.
(But I kind of hope I meet you at the garbage can, seeing you throw away a crumpled coffee shop napkin with scribbles all over the back.)

Adamant rays of sun kiss rooftops,
blades of grass caress skin
as crickets whisper soothing melodies.
Your skin is hot but you bury closer to the one beside you,
and your hair is *****
with knees stained green.
But right at the heat of dusk,
nothing could be more perfect
than the eternal sigh of forgotten troubles
as dusk turns to night.

I wish I had something poetic
to describe the physical ache in my chest
when I think back to when our fingers would entwine
the same way our bodies would,
or the way your eyes gleamed with such passion
when talking about something you love.
And it hurts
knowing I remember so much,
and you remember so little
if any at all.

Someone asked me to describe home and I almost said your name but I kept quiet instead, people expect you to say a **** place but I felt more home in your arms than I ever did in my own house.

I always loved your mouth,
the way it would kiss.
The way your lips curved up
in a half smirk that left me breathless,
yet the same mouth I loved
I grew to hate,
because your breath
was laced with lies
and broken promises.
You were the only thing I ever wanted.

It's times like these where I miss you most.
My lips crave the feeling of yours pressed tightly against mine.
Yet as I reach out
against the crisp white sheets
and feel nothing but empty space,
my walls crumble
and I am left with only the memories
of what we used to have.

the images of us being together flash through my mind.
My soul yearns to be closer to yours.
You will never know me as anything more than me,
but I will always know you as my world.

Two months ago you told me my hair smelled like flowers, and today I saw you stepping on a rose.

I think of you as my love.
My heart, my soul
longs to be in your embrace.
I think of you as my everything,
and you think of me as nothing.

Is a home a place or a feeling?
I feel like an outcast in my own skin
and I can't even find the words to begin
to describe how your eyes are warmer
than any bed sheet I've ever known.
My mouth betrayed me,
I never know what to say.
But if I found the strength to say
just one thing,
I'd say, 'please don't leave me.'
You're the only door I ever want to open.