you kissed my neck and I began to seep into a pile of hot candle wax; melting and hardening all the while. you cleaned me up and tried to mold me into what I once was but I knew that I would never be the same candle that warmed you up. when I am with you my fire seems to flicker with a certain nervousness and then you kiss my neck and I begin to fall apart once again.

she got used to writing about his eyes, the color of bath water and how she wanted to bathe in them, the poet's cliché.

until he left her and she realized they weren't pale purple or pale blue or translucent: they were stormy gray like a volcano with a flaring red rim similar to lava. each blink brought upon an eruption of mass proportions and he cried dark ashes.

The moon breaks through the window with luminosity
Your chest rises and falls lightly with every calming breath
My pale fingers trace your gorgeous skin as I lay awake
I blink with every inhale of breath your sleeping body takes
Our legs are tangled together to keep us from moving apart

My fingers seem to trail towards your collar bones
Chirping crickets and hissing cicadas fill the silent void
My colorless lips tug into a smile for you have awoken
Your lips lure towards my ear in a swift manner
Words of love and wishes for the future pour from your lips

And we end the night with a simple kiss

I'm afraid that if someone were to put a knife to my skin and cut open, all that would erupt from my veins is your name, tucked neatly into the corners, so no one could know how fervently I love you. Even though you're all that is keeping me alive, at times youre all that I think will be the death of me.

I know that I'm no good for you
You are the sun, moon, stars, sky
All the wonderful things in this universe
While I'm just a breathing human being
Who merely craves for your existence
more and more each day

the veins
on my hand
look like road maps
and still, I’ve been trying
to follow my heart home.
the road map of veins end
at my forearm
where I’ve etched your name
countless times
with shards of stained glass.
home isn’t where the heart is.

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.