youre talking about a loon thats so far ahead of us that it swims out of my view. its easy to lose sight of things when the fog is this thick. and im avoiding the hill because i cant risk seeing the blazing trail of a departing plane just yet. you try to find value in things that no one else could love and im sorry you have to find out like this but i belong under the hill, not on it.

the only flowers i can keep alive hang blankly on my wall and maybe thats why you take so many pictures of me. im not something you frame or press in a book i am not something you put on display i am not something you should water.

on the floor theres a bag thats missing 4 but everything still hurts.

and floating feels like an understatement now, as water levels drop instead of rise and the clouds are closer than ever. i spend every night wishing on stars that soon we will be standing on those clouds, the moon our next stop. i guess you never really anticipate the heaviness that can be presented to you so suddenly and i am floating on rain clouds back down to earth. somewhere on my journey down a familiar light stops me like an old friend and i stay, hovering above the lake i so often wished to be apart of. the darkness that surrounds me chuckles in time with the pounding in my chest, the kind of alarm that rings only at 3am. those dreams of thunderstorms have overstayed their welcome and i am the one doing the evicting this time.

but this is not the end. suspended by newly sewn strings i see a countdown forming above the glowing city, a reminder that nothing has ever stopped us before. we conquered the funeral and flowers grow from my fading graves. we've climbed hills that feel like
mountains to sit on the moon. we are still roughly 581 days away from the beginning and i have come to accept that maybe the stars were never spelling out "closed" but rather "not open yet". the grey mass that fills the air is the last curtain before the grand opening.

and that glowing city is as clear as ever and for the first time ever the end credits are rolling backwards.

july 28, 2015, 9:18 PM

i cant see anything on the horizon tonight but maybe the future isnt always meant to be seen.

theres a boy on the bench next to me speaking of perspective and the comparable sizes of the earth and the sun. tonight i learned that no problems are ever to complex or too big, and that the sky does not belong to me. we're all learning from the stars and theres limitless possibilities lying ahead. there are people who have yet to learn to look beyond the horizon and those who look exclusively. my greatest accomplishment is not relying on the clear skies but rather learning to work with heavy storm clouds.

there is a ******* the bench next to me reading a book and i see her eyes wander and graze the watercolour palette ahead.

i can see lights in the distance now, and they are flickering and unsure and i am thankful for their honesty. distance and time are two factors that fill my mind daily and i find myself constantly running along their axes, seeing which one will collapse first. the first thing i realized tonight is that distance is always relative and the space between two places, two people, consists of a lot more than just metres. the second is that time is not just a human created concept but an excuse we fabricate for rash decisions and delayed to-do lists.

the sun set tonight like it always does and i dont think i have ever seen a more beautiful goodbye. it seems like everyone was watching the sky tonight and i watched stars appear for every heart beat. we filled the sky with light as the darkness took over.

july 19 11:43 PM

my heart hurts again tonight.

i cant help but feel stupid on nights like these. i feel clingy and annoying, everything he's so grateful i'm not. when i looked at the sky on my walk home i was engulfed in colours and shapes reminding me how much the world has to offer me. the first thing i thought to do was share this with him and when his phone went to voicemail without even ringing the waves were suddenly taunting. the wind as if it was just waiting to push me off the edge. i reminded myself to appreciate my own skies sometimes and to let him do the same yet somehow i had already dialled that familiar number. someone else picked up the phone and i begged the wind and the waves to welcome me. he didnt see my calls. i shouldnt have called. i shouldnt get too attached and i shouldnt let myself fall. falling only leads to crashing, a sound so familiar to the cavity in my chest as he distractedly told me he couldnt see the sky. im so selfish. im everything he hates wrapped into a package that he's convinced himself he loves. "cloud 9's never felt more like home" and ive never felt more alone. a sunset that reminded me of so many beginnings began to remind me of nothing but an end. the clouds drifted together and the stars spelled out "closed". one by one their lights burned holes and i became the ocean as salt water replaced air and i remember how to drown. i do it so well now. my thoughts are beginning to feel like quicksand, the more i struggle the more i sink and suddenly it is just me and the pit and im the only one doing any falling.

when van gogh painted starry night, people called him crazy because his paintings weren't "real" enough, they were "childish" and "messy". i find that all so strange as i look into the sky and see vincent's brush strokes swirling around the stars. they seem to move with the wind, but even mother nature couldn't take credit for something so beautiful.

and i think of you every crescent moon, when the mountainous clouds are coloured gold; their backdrop looks more like the ocean than the sky.

i read somewhere once that poets are too idealistic, too unaware of reality, their heads so far up in the clouds too see that poetry is not a profession. that was in response to my favourite slam poem-- and i bet the view is so much better up there.

lately i've been seeing you as poems instead of just my muse and often when i speak of you computer-screen critics come out of hiding and tell me my metaphors are crazy and that my hopeful words are idealistic and that i can't base my future around you and to get my head out of the clouds, but i like the world so much better from up here. i realize now that maybe everyone has it backwards. maybe they are so caught up in their self-dug holes to see his brush strokes at night, maybe theyre not looking. they are so afraid to see the sky a different way than how it has been painted for them their whole lives.

the other day i read that starry night was painted by van gogh in an asylum in his last year on this starry earth and that those glittering masses were the view from his window.

i'm not sure how clear things were to him at that time but those stars live on with their little orbs of light; illuminating my thoughts about you, and love, and the future with such clarity. i can only hope my words someday mean as much to someone as that cosmic portrait does to me.

and i hope that one night when you look up at the sky you will see my brushstrokes and think of me.

somewhere between the moon and the horizon I saw stars that reassured me things would be okay. there was rain on my skin, drops resting on his hands holding me tightly. i felt the rain and for the first time i stopped waiting for its end. lost in his grip the clouds seemed so thin. i could not see the stars tonight but i sure as hell knew they were there. you can learn a lot from the sky. something tells me the storm will soon pass and the clouds will blow over, and i know no better than to trust it. misty nights can feel so different when you are not the one raining. dewy mornings and wilted flowers aren't always a sign of the end. the cold feels so different with company; it's as if somehow the loneliness felt a lot like wind. winter's over now and i hear heat rises so it's no wonder we feel it all the way up here. and i wonder how he does it, how with every word he speaks the stars look a little brighter. i have this feeling that his stars are different, they will not burn out and they will not hide and when they fall i will not blame them, he will write a new galaxy. it's amazing how such a cosmic boy could wind up in my sky after countless years of hopeless gazing. i think we're floating now; cloud 9's never felt more like home.

the truth is no one ever taught me how to fix a flat tire or how to ask for help or what love was even good for in the first place

and the truth is that the cookie was good but the lemon icing wasn't and the truth is baking should be done without any kind of lemon at all

and the truth is i wish you'd hold me close enough that our skin fused together and i could burrow into your spine and learn all the things you won't teach me

and the truth is you were never good at making eye contact but i dare you to look at me long enough that i can trace the line that connects your iris to your pupil and count how many shades of black a person can produce

and the truth is i don't know if the grass has fingerprints but i know that yours are cigarette stained and no better at letting go than mine

and the truth is i am a dump site and you are an inhale and i am clockwork and you are a melody and i can't keep my teeth off your eloquence

and the truth is my feet are covered in acrylic paint from leaving smudged footprints in sparkly things

and the truth is i don't want you all to myself but you can pretend i'm yours when i'm engulfed in the ocean and making it hard for you to breathe

and the truth is i'm looking for a different kind of intimacy from you

and maybe it's just some teenage girl talking but the truth is that i want to drown with you. i want to burn with you. i want to scream with you so violently that the body that crushes my lungs crumbles and i become a balloon for real this time

and the truth is, if you hadn't called me beautiful, i would have mistaken last night for a paradise i don't believe in