I dont want to make this
a bigger deal

than it needs to be.

So I will just say it,

I love you.

We were sweating, and moving together, like animals.
It wasn't enough that we took our mothers pills,
and filled our pockets with sugar.
We needed more,
we needed to kiss and dance,
feel something soft against our bodies.

I wanted you to justify your actions
with something more than a side-ways glance,
but you don't care to explain yourself,
because you seem to do things for no reason.

We were too sensual for casual conversation,
and although we talked all day,
we didn't know what our tones meant,
or how to answer each other's questions.

I wanted to feed you chocolate,
and feel your hands on my sides,
but for some reason you wanted to tell me jokes,
and use your hands for other things.

We were holding on in small ways,
secret ways that made people stare,
and wonder if we were in love,
even though they knew we weren't.

I wanted to consume as many chemicals as I could,
because the ones we shared were worth close to nothing.

Ten years from now I don't know where I'll be,
I hope my tongue has stopped bleeding by then,
and that the letters I sent are in a box somewhere.

Hopefully I wont be in the same town,
and that I'll be way happier than I am now,
maybe I'll still be talking to you,
or maybe I'll have moved on.

The floors will be a different color,
same goes for my hair.
I'll probably have fallen in and out of love,
or maybe I'll still be in love,
just in a different way.

My arms will be stronger, and so will my legs,
I bet you I'll eat way more meat,
or just give it up all together.
My pens will have sparkles and be all kinds of colors,
something much more exciting than the black I always use.

Ten years from now I don't know where I'll be.
My tongue's already healing,
and I wonder if food will taste the same.

Nothing could be worse
than waking up with your eyes sewn shut
from an ex-lover
with bad grammar
and a horrible taste in music.
From an ex-lover
that you still think about
but you don't know why.

Nothing can be worse
than a chunk of sour apple
logged in your throat,
in a room full of armless people
with no names,
(which wouldn't matter if they did
because they wouldn't be able to help
anyway).

Nothing will be worse
than trying to examine yourself
under a microscope,
with everyone you ever knew
watching and laughing.
Staring at you like an animal.

Nothing was worse
than saying goodbye
ten days before you left,
ignoring your calls,
your knocks,
your notes.

Nothing is worse than falling out of love.

Thinking that someone loves you is better than nothing,
but what people don't realize is that it was all pokes at jokes
and I bet he smokes,
or knows I do
and doesn't like the smell,
or the way I breathe out,
or how the rings come from my mouth
and are never on my fingers.

And I have paper cuts on those same fingers
that want to be in your hair,
and your body,
(all of it),
and I hope you want them there,
because that's exactly where they'll be
if we ever meet.

The dirt buried in my prints
will leave marks on you like a million hands and feet,
drenched in paint and smeared over your temple.

I bet you don't care what I look like,
or that I have a Van Gough pin,
or that people like to write my name.
I'm glad you like to listen,
and that you're smooth with words,
so I can fall asleep to the sound of your golden text.

I never thought I would like an arial view,
or that I would fall in love with strings of it
all laced together into a perfect fabric,
(or web).

I hope that you're not allergic to sound,
or jelly beans,
because I want to see you cry and smile at the same time.

I need to get drunk if I'm going to say anything beautiful.
You've proved that on multiple occasions,
the only problem is that I've never been drunk,
and you've never bothered to pay attention to what I had to say.

I wish we had walked together more,
and that we drank lemonade and ran through the sprinklers,
instead of dreaming about being somewhere else.

I remember how wonderful you looked with your hair wet,
and your smile shining whiter than my skin against the summer sky.

I can still hear the sound of your heart beating,
and your breath against my neck as you hugged me
and against my ear as you tried to whisper.

It seems like everything I say is about me,
and it's all just a bunch of memories that are about you,
almost as if without you time had to stop.

All I'm looking for is some clear communication in the physical world.

I've got some intentions that don't necessarily balance on the scale of right or wrong,
but self-love gets old after a while.

I know I haven't talked about this in months,
but getting closer has been my top priority,
(since always).

Celebrities die in threes,
and relationships come in twos,
so where does that leave me?

I would use your name like some of my favorite poets do,
but I'm not that daring.
I'm an addict,
and I'll always be a top-notch quitter,
apart from the fact that I find new obsessions.

I have these new rips in my skin,
I can't help but cover them up,
or wonder about yours,
and if they're the same.

I think it's too late to compare,
but you know I tried to say this earlier.