To be loved by a poet
is to be embroidered with feelings.
To be torn apart,
examined,
and put back together as words
instead of flesh and bones.

It's been a week since I've seen you and it's making me want to strangle myself not knowing how you're doing.

Most of the time I'm not usually bothered by the fact that my love for you will forever be unrequited. But on some nights,the thought of not being able to know what it feels like to hold your hand,to not know what your lips taste of,to never know how fast your heart beats when our eyes meet,to never know what it feels like to have my hand on your chest as we watch some corny movie, these thoughts keep me up at night. And it breaks my heart to bits.

What made me fall for you?
Was it your eyes?
Your incredible sense of humor?
Your freckles?
Your dimples?
Your **** eyebrows?
The way your hair falls into your face when you shake your head?
The way your nose crinkles when you laugh?
The way you make me unknowingly blush without even doing anything?
Tell me.
Because I'd really like to know.

They say you don't know what you have until it's gone.
But what about the people that do know?
The people that just have to sit there waiting and watching helplessly as the only thing that's keeping them from going insane is walking away from them.
Isn't it much worse for them?