I was a traveler.
She was a poet.
l visited almost half of the world.
She wrote about it.
I loved to wonder.
She was wanderlust.
I've been from North to West,
from Australia to Antarctica.
She saw them from her computer screen.
I loved her,
as much as I loved to travel the world.
She loved me as if I was the world..
or something. Though in my eyes,
she didn't even compare to the Eiffel tower
or the great wall of China.
She was much more majestic.
She said she could write about me all day.
I said I could explore every inch of her,
every day. And although I traveled everywhere
and anywhere you could imagine,
she was by far my favorite tourist attraction.
She was my world.
She was the whole world.
In a day.

(All I see is) white
while I write
(about everything that
is involved with you) which
(is nothing)

our toes were cold, my left hand warm.
It smelt like mushrooms and Alfredo.
He kissed me in paradise and in Paris, though
there wasn't much of a difference (your lips still had the smooth feel of glass, sharp edges included).

I smiled at the nonchalant music, paying
absolutely no attention to the things they said.

I'm the type of person to scratch out something,
rather than erasing or whiting it out permanently.
I don't know, maybe because I like to look back
on the thoughts and the things that I've done.
I don't like forgetting about things.
I prefer remembering that things were there
and that I've done them.

we sit on the windowsill,
your cold fingertips grasp my thigh.
drinking cranberry juice, pretending it's red wine and that we're somewhere else right now.
somewhere where only we exist, somewhere pleasant and fulfilling. somewhere where
plants grow and leaves turn into dust
when the slightest breeze hits their tips,
where the chlorophyll soothes the atmosphere with oxygen and green.

you stare out the window
in an old café thinking,
"why am I here, we always used to come here"

watching the raindrops reminded you of her
and how she'd still drink it
when they didn't get her coffee order right
two cream, two sugars, one milk
yeah I still remember
and try every day to forget-

Just thinking
of nothing really.
Just of how fog
can lay over grass
Correspondingly
and some things on earth
aren't even possible.
Like the fact that I can't even go
anywhere without thinking
of nothing really.
just of how you
correspond with me

I first saw you in a coffee shop:

you were a few feet away from me. your feet tapped absentmindedly underneath your crooked chair while black and blue pen ink residue resided on your fingers. Your eyes were reading a newspaper yet your mind was paying no attention to the words. I was in such deep thought studying you that my heart skipped a beat when I saw your eyes glance up at mine. You started studying me instead of the crinkled worn out paper in your hands. A smiled played across your face as the radiant warmth of it touched my eyes—

Morning
your eyes become the sun
In which I pleasantly wake up to everyday

Afternoon
your eyes simmer only slightly, still as
bright as the sun except more peacefully

Night*
gloomy hair and unfaithful bags
touch your eyes though they do not cause any effect;
yet
only when your lips whisper "goodnight love*" and kiss my delicate cheek I notice
how the day dims your eyes

he had a cigarette in his mouth
that lingered at the tip of his lips;
the bottom one.
his eyes screamed of despair

yet his mouth said nothing;
bitter and harsh words leaked
out and without meaning

they meant something;
I'm currently racking through your brain,
while burning in your veins delicately.
I'll always be there,

waiting while;
your voice trembles like wings
and your bones whisper melodies, loudly
*loudly

soft fall,
empty love notes

she cursed at her cursive writing, it having absolutely nothing to do with how horrible she (thought) she was. Her fingers ached as she cracked her knuckles. She was such a perfectionist, seeing everything but perfection in her eyes. Plants came alive when they saw and thought
of her. She was the earth and it, her.

Everyone tried their best to enjoy her while they could. While she lasted.

it was a nice evening,
though.
one where wine would
of been drank under
the full moon
above.
one where "I love you"s
would of been said or
kisses after "goodnight"
has been whispered.
one where ticking
clocks and
pounding
heads (due to the previous
partying)
would be the only
side effect to a
nice
evening.

Write
until your thoughts become words
and those words become spelling mistakes
and those spellig. Mistakes make sense
to everyone ecvept you
and your worfs become jumbled
and make no sense
and are illeterate
and until they make no sense
to anyone
except *you

felt nothing but bone.
the earth was still
our organs connected
our tongues made music

I wanted affection.

I fell in love... with the way
you fall asleep. slowly, then all at once. god, I sometimes wish that I saw the pictures that reside underneath your eyelids and the images, that make a map on the inside of your brain. but no, here I am, feet as cold as the heart of a murderer's, listening to coffee steam and the sound of your soft whispers.

I fell in love... with the way
you fell in love with the sky.
the tenderness of the clouds
and the fluffiness of the atmosphere, you've always adored the sky; especially after it rained. red-sky,
I think you called it. though I've never had the pleasure to witness one (and with you), I hope it looked like you. I hope it looked
like your eyes in the evening time.
that'd be my redsky. I see redskies. redskies in your eyes, yes, well
if that counts.

I fell in love... with the way
your heart fell into beats. each one
sounding like a metronome that stopped to the sound of your voice and had no specific rate. oh, it'd flutter then fall, then rise, and fall again; kind of like how I feel about you. kind of like how I fell for you. kind of how my love is now for you.
and I really wished I figured out which part I'm at now, the flutter or the fly part..

you were always so strong,
always holding on to what was left
of us
or what you wanted to be left
from us, our trademarks
our skid marks our triumphs
and our failures

you were always strong,
strong enough to hold us both together
even if I kept making us fall down
and I'm sorry, I really am sorry
for being that piece of paper
which couldn't stick to the glue

and I'm sorry for being the odd man out
and I'm sorry

for doubting that you weren't strong
I'm *sorry

the train's presence blows her hair
as the sleeping dust on the tracks
run to meet her face.
-
she wants time to slow
and the aftenoon to go by fast;
she indecisively decides
to take the second train.
-
She wonders how they're doing.
are they having fun in the cold; she
wonders if they're tasting the bitter
wind against their harsh tongues;
or if they feel the amount of angst
and anger she does, currently.
-
She tastes the quiet breeze
against her sweet tongue, back aching
in thought, her mind and eyes blurring
out what's happening right now:
on the train she's on.

I learnt to live off of art and music;
food and water aren't mandatory.
(I'm trying to let my fingers talk).
/
breathe in the sky
stare at plants, decorate
bite your cheek, but not too hard this time. feel your heart, let your veins talk and pump the blood throughout your body to the rhythm of the song.
grow, walk, alone
(it's nice to have these moments).

feel the tense skin in between your eyebrows, mad because he doesn't talk to you: though confused because you don't notice him
/

Pizza stains stain her rusty old books;
pages dog-eared and smelling like coffee dates and drags of a stale cigarette, she wishes for late night walks and New York subway rides, the green-blue hue of the underground’s lights swirl by like she was casted in an independent movie film filled with drunken stupors and graffiti-filled alleyways.

He walks back to her creaky-old apartment, her college literature class starting at 8:30am tomorrow yet he persists in walking back to her creaky-old apartment, green flannel catches her apartment's door with the broken lock, his beer-induced thoughts infused with the idea of her in his green flannel, laying on a sofa that’s 70% fluff and 20% couch;

your eyelashes showed interest,
your lips showed courage, with a little bit of lust outlining the curve. they've always been distrustful. but nothing was more dishonest than the snow that frosted and layed on the trees, each branch looking like a frozen chocolate Popsicle.

(the branches were dismembered fingers that always reached for something. love, hope, I don't know.
they cracked and crumbled, to their death, to the ground, whatever in reach falling with them.)

I loved talking to you. you didn't think like me, which was good. you gave a reason to your point of view, always (which was quite annoying in some ways and some adorably lovely in others.) having to say your opinion.

I missed the sun fall tonight and
the sunset was you in a day: stubborn
and obnoxious and everything I wished to be.

I wished that I could hold you
in my hands, like a hot cup of coffee.

you drink cheap wine
from expensive stores every evening
in my dreams.

like red dust and I,
easily picked up and thrown away,
I missed you, a lot, I mean,
I missed a lot of things.
the sunset, the moon,
the curve that resembled your smile,
though I missed you the most.

I wanted you
to miss me and I wanted you,
just because.

you lived
off cigarette smoke
instead of oxygen

I mean, you were toxic
and I absolutely loved it

and sometimes,
I wish I was an addiction;
your addiction

I mean I wish I lived
with a body without blood

everything dies
in the end. even you.

and oh how I wished we didn't have to die.
at least not today. at least not you. I mean you,
oh you tasted like.. like vanilla and I never really enjoyed chocolate.

I preferred the better things
and you gave none of them to me. so why
didn't I want you to die? Maybe it was how the sun would cross your bedroom and how your flat brown eyes would light up the whole room, something my aura always used to do.

Maybe it was when I finally realized how boring death would be without you (and I've wanted to die for a very long time). Not looking to your eyes and having my life viewed right back at me would be kind of sad.

Maybe I didn't want you to die because you were the only one who gave my life meaning.

after the alcohol
rots our insides and
the morning sunrise
stings our eyes and
the fact that we didn't die
today, after all of that, there's still
smiles to see and
similies to say and
hope that the weather'll change and
the gusty wind won't blow our thoughts away.

well anyway.

I'm writing with butter stained lips
and popcorn residued fingertips.
I'm looking at the ceiling, watching
frosted rain fall from the clouds
and onto my window (the curtains
looked rather nice).

and I don't necessarily know why
but I think I love your birthday
more than my birthday and that maybe
and just maybe
I think if you were born
and I wasn't
I wouldn't care

and I think that your poetry
sticks and stays in my mind
more than lectures and homework
answers and I think that maybe
and just maybe
if I saw you randomly walking
down my street
I'd go up to you
and say one of my favorite poems by you
and watch your face as the reaction of
"what the–" crossed your mind
and played with your features;

and I think that maybe
if I died
by your side
with poetry in my veins
and your oxygen in my lungs
I would've probably wished
that I died sooner

you stretched my skin
the light reflected off the wall
the air was light
you took flight, the sun
was my companion that evening.
though if it was up to me,
I'd name you the sunset
and kiss you senseless
and we'd burn the stars
and make them pointless,
my eyes searching and scanning
every point
on your abdomin.
your laugh was cute and
I smiled, thinking that if I wasn't here
I'd wish to be here, right now,
in this very moment,
with you.

with eyelashes like tree leaves
oh she stuck to me; like the glue
that sleeps on my fingers she stuck,
to me. with eyes like the sun and kisses
like stunning bees, I wouldn't mind
dying to her lips. her eyes made me numb
and her voice made me dumb and
her mind made me fall in love with her all over again.
/
I kissed his fingers softly
(I loved the smell of citrus.)
I whispered in her ears and loved her endlessly (occasionally.)
/

You snuck into my dorm room
and told me you missed me
though it only has been minutes
since I was last in your bed

You told me you loved me
and that it wasn't just a phase
yet you turned your back
and walked away

the cold bit at her fingertips,
gently asked for her attention.

she was the winter and he
was the breeze

she was the snow;
he was the frostbite.

she was everything he wasn't
and he wasn't even close to anything
that she was; or wanted

He has wide eyes and dark hair.
He walks like he carries the world around
with him. With earphones constantly in his ears
and music continuously playing in his brain,  
I watch and wonder what he listens to.

The dark circles around his eyes tell me that he's
into indie rock; though that may also just imply
that he lacks sleep. His deep and nonchalant gaze
tells me that he's gone; that he lives far far away,
in his mind.

my fingers tremble and
my heart stutters and
my mind wonders and
my eyes question and  
I don't exactly know you and
I don't exactly know why,





but you make me nervous

we have a weird relationship.

it's like we both want to talk to each other,
yet we have nothing to say

or maybe we do
but we don't want to say it

or maybe we actually do want to say it,
but we don't know how to phrase it.

though we do have the words..
but are they the right ones?


maybe we don't talk to each other
because of the things that run through our minds.

I* don't love you,
and this is not a poem,

though if I must say,
I wish I was the moon

so you could look up at me
everyday (when I'm still in the sky,
just not visibly there)
and every night

and I wish I was the cup of coffee,
you held up to your lips every evening,
feeling each chiseled curve,
and every layer of the skin
that resided there.

I don't know,
I guess I just wished that I was the things
that touched your skin each day
and/or the things that were in your
every day routine

Its raining
and every drop
of precipitation
that falls out of that sky
reminds me of my grey shirt
and how your tears clung to it
like me to you when you had to leave
but only to the convenience store I
remember your exact response
when I said those words
that made your delicate eyes melt

*"come back to me"

if I spoke in tongues,
would you understand me better?

if I contrasted with you,
like the sunset and the sunrise,
would you finally noticed me?

if you inhaled the moon
and your body exhaled smoke,
from my lungs,
would you be able to breathe again?