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.

god ****** she misses you

and god ****** i miss you

and im sorry, god, for swearing but i have run out of ideas on how to make this no good shapeshifting warm handed boy notice me remember when he said i love you

this is not a goodbye you don't deserve one this is not a plea for help see previous poems, twitter, my wrists, etc this is not a romanticization of your destructive ways and i no longer hear birds sing when you torch cities and i can't bring myself to see the love in your inferno so what the hell do i have left to say to you

i once wrote that you left love letters on my tongue and that you made drowning fun but i have come to the conclusion that those are both in fact lies and that the only thing you left on my tongue is the bitter taste of your name and beer and that drowning is ******* terrible and so are you

i remind myself everyday that you must have been a good person somewhere along the way and that there must have been some point where you actually did miss the feeling of my skin and that i was the only one you cared for- but i must also remember the day you filled my vacancy and turned on the lights and i still see you in the smiling pictures hung on the walls like your head in the hall whenever i pass by and i remember the day you moved out and on to nicer things and to this day you have succeeded in making the whole thing feel like an eviction, like it was me that wanted you gone and my peeling wallpaper has since revealed that the only thing holding me together was you

funny how every part of this poem ends with you and funny how every thought these days ends with you

and it's funny how when things ended with you you were the only one laughing

this is not a cry or a plea or an appology

this is a eulogy from me to you and i will not waste any more metaphors or adjectives or nights where i should be fast asleep on your whirlpool eyes and twisted smile

you once said, at 3 am, "you know when you're as close to loving someone as physically possible without actually saying it?" and i replied with "yes" and i love you i love you i love you

i hope flowers grow from your rotting heart and i hope you wake up some life and feel just a hint of remorse as you look into her eyes

i'm not a poet and you're not a nice boy and there was a time when i would devote my life to writing about the way you touched my cheek and you would devote your life to exploring the small of my back

that life has ended and i hope she holds you close enough at night

(my own hands will find comfort in the folds you left unnoticed and i will let myself hear the whispers of flattery upon every surface i touch. i will love myself and i will learn to not love you and i will find someone that i can love without pushing myself aside)

i don't know how i ended up here but it feels as if i got on the wrong train and ended up at an abandoned station and your eyes resemble the wall clocks and the tracks your arms. i would give the world to jump down below the platform and faded yellow line, to feel your cold as metal touch on my cheek once more. i wish i never bought a **** ticket in the first place. i wish i would stop romanticizing what you did to me and i wish i wish i wish i could stop writing about you.

but **** how can i? you're still in my mind and you're still in my texts and you're still in the mouths of everyone who talks to me and you're still standing there with your puppeteer strings and my scissors cant free me this time.

who could forget the boy with the oceans in his eyes and the poison on his tongue. i think i am immortal now because i keep drowning and there seems to be no end. i also think you're a huge ******* *******, please let me kiss you again.

you couldn't **** me so you ****** with my brain and you ****** with my heart and you ****** my friends and i never even got to say goodbye you know that? you said you hated goodbyes and i know now it's because you never needed closure. i am still a weak girl who has sewn new strings and will move to your command in a heart beat. throw me aside with your other toys until the day comes around when i become needed, i will be beautiful again.

so when you tell me you miss the feeling of my skin, *******, i am confused because it feels as if you have never felt below my shell. i am confused because you are high and i am tired. i am confused because the next week you took a match to us and left the wreck unscathed.

it's 10:05am and i did not drink last night and you were kind of a **** and i don't think you're aware of the overwhelming presence you have on my life. you ******* looked into my eyes yesterday though, for the first time in months, and i could've sworn i saw something human in your eyes.

i used to compare your oceans to my salty rivers and mistook a black hole for a wishing well.

i broke a boy's heart the other day and cursed you for ruining me.

I think i believe in god now. Not as an overbearing presence or a silver-bearded man sat upon clouds dictating my every move but i think i have found meaning the idea of a greater power.

I don't know how we end up drenched in cold september rain every time we go out but i think its a sign. Of what i'm not yet sure but i know the way your eyes lit up the last time i saw you was the work of an angel.

I swear i reached heaven when my heart jumped out of my chest and into your hands, metaphorically of course since your hands explored my skin, i was beside you and i think i lost track of where blanket met boy because your warmth replaced mine and my god did it feel good.

I'm not juliet and you're no romeo but maybe our lips can do as hands do one day, and maybe i can reach enlightenment or like hold your hand or something.

I think about why people pray as i lie in bed synthesizing you out of blankets and no amount of ******* pillows can make every hair stand on end like you. My thighs miss your hands and their melodic movements and trails of fire and i miss the sound of your heart and how fast it was beating and i wonder if you could hear mine too from across the room.

I hope heaven looks a lot like that room, as this one is hell and someone turned up the heat.

1:23 am and you want to get drunk off alcohol and i want to get drunk off your lips but i guess it's easier to open a bottle than your mouth.

1:43 am and i know you're drinking and i long to be the cold metal you wrap your lips around and the cool liquid that runs over the mountains on your tongue.

2:15 am and you ask me how i am and you worry that i've fallen asleep but you don't see that i can't even close my eyes without seeing you, without me, and i consider never blinking again if it means i can escape that sight.

2:24 am and you tell me i'm cute. 14 times.

2:36 am "i want to kiss you" and i know your brain is fuzzy and your hands are shaking but when you tell me these 5 words i cant help myself from stretching them out and wrapping myself in them.

2:38 am "i really want to kiss you" and i know you're drunk and i know you ****** me over and i know you've said this to other girls and i know i shouldn't want to but i know that i really want to kiss you too.

2:47 am "i really wanna see you" and i wish you knew what your simple phrases do to me and maybe you do but the only thing i know for sure at this moment is that you are no good for me and i can't get enough.

2:49 am and you say you'll do anything but your intoxicated mind can't see that you've had me hooked for as long as i can remember.

3:01 am and you start to turn away and i feel you getting farther and i can't do anything to hold you in place for just a second longer. i'm choking on my words as you doubt my feelings for you and i can't help but blame myself for letting you slip away. but maybe i never really had you in the first place.

3:19 and all i hear is "no"

"fine"

"nevermind"

3:34 am and i ask you if you know how much you mean to me and you say no and i think my heart just gave up and i think you just gave up and i can't believe you'd think i'd give up

4:03 am and the door screeches behind me (****) and the air is colder than i thought (****) and i have no idea where to go (****).

4:13 am and i find myself making conversation with the rain and the earth is breathing me in and the stars look at me with such pity and i try to drown them out but i'm just a washed out girl waiting for a boy who's not coming.

4:24 am and i can't bring myself to leave this **** corner just like i can't bring myself to get over you and your stupid lips.

sometime after 4:24 am and i can see you coming towards me as a shadow in the streetlights and i don't think you have any idea how my being craves your touch, how my fingers miss the nape of your neck and how the small of my back feels so ******* abandoned.

there is no measure of time when i am with you and your hands become one with my shaking fingers and your thumb rolls over my palm and we are in the middle of the street and i think this is the first time in a long time that i do not wish for a car to come and sweep me off my feet. i think you've gotten taller but i do not feel small anymore, i do not feel empty, i do not long for an end. i think you lift me up and i think i like the way you smell and i think i'm going crazy but it seems to me that your tongue is writing love letters on mine and i can feel our chests moving, breathing heavy, and our hearts have left our lonely bodies and merged as one in the air above our heads.

5:18 am and your touch is a fire that i do not want to put out. but it is raining and i have to go but i think i can hear it sizzling still. i do not think that your beer and **** can compare to the high i get from your lips on my neck or the dizziness i get from your fingers running along my spine. your kiss is addictive and i could get drunk off of you all the time. if only i could.

i used to fall asleep to the same playlist every night and i would rest my head on the slow beat of some indie song that played from my phone one notch too loud and my eyelids would blink every so often when i started to drift to sleep but found myself singing along instead.

my mum always told me to turn it off and see how much quicker i would fall asleep, my mum never understood how the silence pierced my ear drums and burdened my hearing more than any song could. and i told her that it calmed me down. and i told her that the songs filled my mind with happier thoughts than those that my brain had produced during a long day. and i told myself that i needed to listen to these collaborations of sweet nothings and acoustic guitars.

i also told myself that i needed you.

and my mother never warned me about you or the damage you were capable of. she never told me to turn you down and see how much easier i would have it.

i revisited you like my ripened playlist and i told myself that you calmed me down, and i told myself that you made me happy, and i told myself that i needed you like i needed each and every one of those songs and i tell myself now that i was wrong.

i did not need you to make me happy and i did not need you to calm me down and i did not need you because you were just like those blurred melodies and messy lyrics.

you were just another song in a playlist i used to block out the silence.

i turn you into poems and maybe it's because i want to see you as something special or maybe i want whatever we are to have some sort of deeper meaning that can only be explained in the most twisted similes and metaphors that make wonder about things i never should wonder about.

i turn you into poems and i ask myself; are you the tree that falls silently in the forest or are you the person that isn't around to hear it? are you the fire or the fuel that i continue to add to it? are you the cause of a chain reaction or just another part of one? is what we had the elephant in your room or was it the entire room itself?

i turn you into poems when it's late at night and i turn myself into a blank page and i cover myself with you but you are only ink and this is only a metaphor.

i turn you into poems when you look at me and i think i can hear the morning song birds telling me tomorrow will bring me happiness but i think you hear the crows and the ravens and you look ominous and i think it is because only i hear the birds and this is only a metaphor.

i turn you into poems when i turn 16 and you haven't so much as smiled at me and i turn to you when i need help and you turn away and i continue to turn you into ******* poems.

you are a book of poems resting by my bed and i am just the author.

lately i find myself often thinking about you and my past and the bittersweet connection of the two.

and i see you in the morning and your hair's a wild mess that keeps the imprints of your gentle fingers fresh and pull each strand back with the effort of a breeze pulling flowers taught.

and i see you at noon when the sun is its brightest but everything around you seems to expect a grander light to emerge from you and i see that light and feel it's warmth on my cheek. and i wonder if my mother was right when i was a child and if i should be wearing sunscreen but i think i am willing to be burned by your presence rather than separated by the thin layer of protection i know i should have. i know i should protect myself.

and i know it in the evening when you look through me with your tired eyes
and i know it when i ask you how your day was and you reply with "fine" and i know too well that fine is not a synonym for "okay" or "happy",
and i know it when i feel alone on the couch with your body next to mine less than a centimetre a part yet you cannot hear my plea for you to hold me once more.
and i still know it in the middle of the night when the stars sneak away and pastel clouds burst from the horizon and i have woken up today, a good start i remind myself, but you are not here again and this time i sink into my bed and i let the realization sink in too.

i wish i would've listened to my mother because i can not live with your burns anymore.

It's 2:04 am and you're on my mind again, I miss your stupid hands on my stupid back when you kissed me with the same stupid lips that wanted nothing more than a second chance which was wasted in haste and you left and seem so fine, so happy now so what the hell were we and who the hell was I and when the hell did things become so complicated? When did tired eyes and late night talks turn into me wondering over and over again what I did wrong? You said you liked my eyes and my music and my plants and so they remind me of you and now my plants are dead and that music keeps playing but I am alone and my eyes are drooping and dry and you are so unaware.

Sometimes I like to think about how your eyes met mine
For the first time
And how we drifted
Closer,
But never close enough.
And I didn't know, then
How I longed for your touch or
How every fibre of my being
Craved your warmth.
And we walked along
In parallel it seemed but God knows
We were destined to intersect
And all at once we connected
Hand to neck
To back
Chest pressed to pounding chest
Sharing breath in the longest conversation known to man.
I think I lost a piece of me
When your lips met mine,
Because when we were apart I felt empty
In places I never knew had any feeling at all
And only you,
Your touch,
Could fill my longing and stop my pain
And babe, we were so great.
Though we were not parallel
But rather intersecting lines meeting
At an angle sweeter than any before,
And I think we both knew
That our lines would drift
And stretch upon a surface greater than space or time
And I think about this, still.
I try to fathom ways to bend our lines,
To find myself back in your embrace,
Lips to neck
To chest
Your eyes on mine again.
And lately I have found myself
Desperate to feel anything again
But it seems that nothing
Can duplicate the pain that you left
And all I have is some scars
And a gaping hole
Where you took that piece of me
That very first night
And I hope you hold it dear,
But I don't need it anymore.

It's 2:32 am and I'm thinking about him and how he thinks and speaks and I wonder if he's thinking about me too as he crawls into bed tonight. He is so wonderful, it's like nothing can taint him, his simplicity. Every time he looks at me it's like he has hand painted my most inward corners with a fresh coat of paint, and when he laughs I can feel the ground shake as the earth shivers into itself absorbing his warmth. And his smile is so incomparable and it makes me wonder how something so simple can put me in such a place, isolated from words and pictures and logical thoughts and there is just him. Like an outstanding presence that won't go away and I'm not quite sure if I want him to anymore. It's as if merely trying to think of a word to compare him to rids that word of it's meaning and replaces it with him. I have written books in my mind about his smile but they will never compare to the stories and questions and really bad jokes that pour from his being. He really is something special, and being around him makes me feel like I must be, too.