I have been searching for him on every street corner, between lines of poetry, and in the pale shades of green trapped in my own eyes.
Where has he gone?
Where will I go without him?

When blank pages whisper your name and somehow every blot of ink looks like you; write me off. When words fail me first and actions take over, I’m yours.

A writer’s last words are all she has, so when that boy is the only thing my throbbing heart asks for, sink my books in tumbling oceans. He is the muse that erased every other.

He is a violet that bloomed in November.
Purple where he should be wilted, that boy is an enigma; his eyes said everything sarcasm could never relay.
If his affection was the light that fueled my confidence, it was senseless to believe he was capable of showing the rain he drowned in.
I wish I knew to ask if he was well-kept. I’d have dug myself up to make room for that boy, even when it poured until we were blue.