make me wish i could write
in the way i hardly understand
what my words mean at all

like those poets who manage to place
every word, every detail of it
in the most perfect cadence

speaking in a language of only those few
who feel or have been through the same thing could understand
with their deeper and wittier sense
at catching things in the right way

feelings successfully delivered across
like it's the first thing you'll read
in the envelope

and though i still lack the capability of doing so
i'd still stretch any words i have in me
to attempt creating something—
anything less than what the heart feels

you
make me try to utter things
that i’d rather leave unsaid
if it’s about
  anyone but

and in our battle of words,
yours succeeded to wade its meaning straight across
and with a solid one at most,
i have once again been rendered lost

my feelings are the splattered inks
bold, italics
threatening to spill
weighing on every meaning
words could carry
scrambled up, juggled
those who’ve yet to feel
shall not speak
and pray tell, words
do you realize what you amount to?
what’s behind was for a reason, a person
clear as day, solid reverie
what lies beneath shan’t remain between the lines
and if it reaches you, we’re alike

time is sand to the gaps through my fingers
air to a drifting feather
a current to the water
it seeps through
it flows
it wipes off
never keeps tracks nor leaves prints
never tangible nor stays still
the closest we can get is a swirl of its moments
the stretched writings of the faint memories
it keeps you on your toes
it leaves you breathless
it never stays as it was

my feelings are a mountain
i have yet to tackle
detached of my body
way ahead of me
in a sense it may have manifested its way of life
now it is a head, with a heartbeat
i’ll let it grow a hand of its own
perhaps two, even
limb after another
& who am i but a shell?

‪feel better soon, heart.
i hope it aches less but never heals,
save some left for when you’d wonder how pain felt like.
it takes you getting hurt to make you feel alive, from your recall.

if you’re so used to goodbyes, why does it ache different each time?

words, little do they seem to mean
for someone so big that not even one’s heart can bear

i hope in a different life,
you would—at least—be happier,
even if that means trading my only chance
in this life of knowing you exist.

if i’d known better, would i still be able to tell myself that i was not doing things wrong?