I’m sitting in the spot
where I wrote my first poem,
but all I can think about is you.
I suppose writing your first poem
and seeing your first poem
are two very different things.

And your love,
tied like an anchor to my heart,
keeps sinking me deeper into you.

I’ve gone through uncountable cups of coffee
over the past few months,
but none of them ever quite taste the same
as the first one I’ve had.
Sometimes not enough cream,
other times too much sugar;
always without you
on the other side of the table.

They forgot to tell you it's not always easy,
that just because the ocean seems so
calm at night
doesn't mean it doesn't ache
for morning.
They forgot to tell you it takes time,
that weeks may feel like hours
and months may feel like years.
That it only grows deeper in patience
and stronger in absence.
They forgot to tell you it speaks louder
in silence than it ever could in words,
that it listens closer when my hands
talk to yours,
that it lives inside your bones,
and not inside your heart.
They forgot to tell you it makes you
weak at the knees,
and strong in the head.
That it can fill every broken crack,
and heal every open wound.
They forgot to tell you it will leave scars.
They forgot to tell you that you can
give it all away without ever having
it given back to you.
They forgot to tell you that is okay.
They forgot to tell you that memories
don't fade away.
They forgot to tell you that it hurts.
They forgot to tell you what it means.
I'm here to tell you that it's worth it.
I'm here to tell you that you're worth it.

I don't sleep much anymore.
It's the same as when we first met,
even though it's not the same.
I used to think "alone" was an adjective,
now I know it's just the state
of not fitting anywhere.
I don't fit anywhere.
There's nowhere to call home.
I hate being awake,
it just reminds me you're not here.
I hate being asleep,
it just reminds me that I'll wake up.
I don't write much anymore.
I have nothing left.
Words can't describe the 
pounding in my head,
or the emptiness in my bones.
So when you ask, "What's wrong?",
I don't have much to say besides,
"I don't sleep much anymore."

The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.

I just wanted to be alive.
After all, you were sunlight
and my eyes were still tired
from just waking up.
I am waiting for time to
catch up with the weather.
3 AM used to feel so much warmer.
I see stars and think about
the patterns that run through
your skin,
the constellations that run through
your veins.
I will never have a chance
to trace them all,
but my God,
they are beautiful.

I have never woken up and felt so **** alone.

Lost in a sea
Of false realities,
****** fantasies and
Tiresome formalities.

Accustomed to the overture of
Treachery writhing in mouths.

Staggered by waves
Eclipsing my
Avenue to fulfillment