I fight the nightmares,
Each night.
Sleep comes and goes,
Like a streetlight.

Writing is my true escape,
Once a lightbulb goes off,
I chase these thoughts in my head,
When I can't seem,
to go to bed.

Late nights,
Faint yellow glow,
Of my nightlight,
On my little wooden table.  
Soft Grey pj's,
Seeming to sink,
In my weight.
All these thoughts,
They link,
Making these poems,
Late at night,
I have no fright.

For--
Once I write,
I feel free.
Finally light enough,
To breath.

Finally free enough,
To fly.
Not scared.
Not anxious.
Not sad.
Not mad.
All things let loose.

the faint glow,
Turns dark.
The noise,
Slows.
And sleep comes,
And then it repeats,
As night turns to day,
sleep goes.

I swim endless in despair
So that I do not drown in it.
I breathe only to breathe.

I am suspended in sunlight with no warmth.
I am surrounded by notes that make no melody.
I fumble, falter, fail.

Heavy as a raindrop whose cold
Penetrates deeply into loneliness
Is the air, the light, the lingering.

I forget too much.
I remember too much.
I am too much, and not enough.

A shallow pool is that in which we swim
A void wants only to be filled.
Misery takes us all.

When raindrops fall,
rivers are formed.

When teardrops fall,
epic poems are born.

I have known you as far as my memory goes.
I have observed you, watched you grow—
As I did too.

But I wonder why we never talked,
’Cause we never talked before,
Was all I could think back then.

And even now,
I think it’s still the same—
’Cause we never talked before,
And maybe… we never will.

My lover volunteers to count the amount of stairs on each staircase along campus.
Right, left, right, left, right, right-left, right. There we go.
I count the moles along her arms, like a canvas (they are not freckles.)

My lover redefines the status quo,
Chopped hair that repurposes the definition of what it means to be true to yourself
Hues of blue and pink
And green.

It’s difficult to write something that means so much to you when you are infatuated with your own life.
Obsessed, besotted, and bewitched
By a colour that highlights the boring crevasses of each day,
Delaying and obstructing our undeniable decay.

She loves cats,
Not to solidify our cat-like selfishness,
But as a reminder to remain for all of our nine lives.

Many would call me crazy,
Counting stairs and the amount of times the oven beeps to reassure myself I am not entering a deranged state of mind.
But she counts the stairs
So I can step comfortably through each day.

My lover.