Maybe it was the
Fated curl of a clouds lips
That blew wind
At the precise moment
On the ragged sail
And pushed this vessel
To the raging seas,
Towards stormy nights,
And took me
Exactly
Where I needed to go.

Despite the odds,
This broken boat,
Cracks and crevasses,
Made it's way to You.

He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.

Wise men can tell you
of stories in the stars,
how life began on this earth
and that love is an imbalance of the heart.

These wise men drank wisdom
from the pages of age-old books.
They spent their lives learning of
what others know not.

I
see you in stars.
My life began to get me to you
and I don't care what love is
as long as it makes sense to you.

I spent my life knowing that of you
what others will never know.

I read your scars
like a lover's braille.

And I am not wise at all.

I watched as you
cast yourself away
one step at a time;
with my gaze fixed
at your dauntless irises
how could I have known
that with every breath
you were drifting further away.

The clocks ticked away,
and all I have is the last of
second chances.

I watched as you slowly,
very slowly,
with such grace,
effortlessly,
faded into the horizon.

And all I have to thank
is the image of you
my eye lids were able to retain.

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.