It's not my fault that you're a catastrophe that outshines entire galaxies,
and that the remnants from your explosion lies within my own body
and the bodies of everyone who has the privilege to experience your beautiful tragedy.
Felt from light-years away,
you exceed the amount of love the sun provides everything in its wake,
and you're a burst of color who's shades travel at record speed
impaling everything in your path in a flash so blinding
that even my heart can't see straight.
You're the most violent event ever known
but I'm anything but destroyed.
You  can blow yourself apart as many times as you want
but I'll never see you as simply the death of something beautiful.
Instead I see you as the puzzle pieces that create universes you'd never imagine when put back together.
Long story short,
you're cataclysmic to life as we know it,
but you're everything I need to feel together again.

Being in a large dark room with nothing but rows of emptiness was the least lonely I've felt in such a long time,
with the ends of your hair poking at my temple and my eyelashes fluttering against your cheek, I caught a glimpse of the entire world without ever setting foot outside of that room.
It probably wasn't the world you're thinking of, though.
In you, I saw streams for veins and earth for eyes and entire ecosystems in your pores.
I want to rip each of the hairs out of my head one by one because my hands don't know what else do to when you're not around
and when your fingertips lightly trace my jawline you tell me I'm the most beautiful work of art you've ever seen in your entire existence.
Your existence is such an important thing though and my brain can't wrap around how it possibly came to be considering so many flaws were thrown together so perfectly that something astonishing was created,
but what's even more astonishing is the fact that I love every bit of it and being so ******* happy is about to drive me insane (in the best way possible).

The first thing I do each morning is wonder if you had a better night's seep than I did.
I don't sleep much these days, and I know you don't either, even though you don't want to admit it sometimes.
I know, though.
And each morning when I lay there in a daze I think about how strongly I long to know that you were finally able to experience the "sweet dreams" I told you to have the night before.
**I've never longed for anything as much as this.

They teach you in school that the building blocks of life and matter are atoms filled with subatomic particles
But believe me when I tell you that they're lying.
"They" are claiming to be your saviors from what is actually fueling your bloodstream.
Protectors of your sanity
But believe me when I tell you it's fraud, a scheme of words that are meant to prevent you from discovering the actual monsters buried beneath your fingernails and hidden in the cracks of your bones.
You see, what the evildoers trains the neurons in your brain to understand is that the demons in your skin cells are atoms filled with subatomic particles.
This is what you know and you know it for a fact until the time comes for the poltergeists within you to attack.
They line up and pluck away at the petals of your once "protected" sanity one by one until you're convinced he loves you not.
Your defense has been destroyed and the demons flood in with no intention to come back out.
The swarms of beasts taking over every aspect of your being is what is now going to cause a new feeling called "numbness."
Your last memory of peace is permanently shattered.
This is called growing up, kids.

In that moment, every neuron in my brain was perfectly aligned.
They knew something I didn't, and I don’t think they wanted to tell me, either.
I had to figure it out on my own, hoping to not be mislead.
You whispered to me that you enjoyed stealing the moisture from my lips
and I whispered back that you took the oxygen from my lungs in the process
but I liked the crushed, suffocating feeling in the pit of my chest as I secretly long to feel it again.
I tolerated the bags under my eyes as my face buried in your neck became more and more important to me (it started to feel like home)
and told me not to be ashamed of them because they were proof that you had gotten the attention you deserved.
My sleepless nights resulted in page after page of the notes I took so I would eventually know your soul like the back of my hand.
I only like to write when I’m suffering from insomnia anyways, because that’s when things start to make sense. (Like you, you made sense to me)
Just like things only make sense to you when your breath reeks of intoxication.
I studied the veins on your wrists until I knew them well enough to see the picture with my eyes closed
as you studied my fingertips and made me believe that you could perfectly connect the dots of my pores and still know it was me even if you went blind.
You wanted to know me as well as my worn bed sheets, which gently caresses every part of my exhausted being each night, inch by inch.
I can’t help but smile as I write this, no one was as determined as you.
I was pretty **** determined as well, if I do say so myself.
I longed to know everything about your insanity.
You must have been pretty insane, smoking on the back porch with your friends and still making sure you didn't forget to ask me how my day was.
Again, it makes me smile realizing someone was so hell-bent on knowing me.
Tell me what you remember.
Every detail.
I want as many memories to flood back into my brain so that maybe in some way, I can feel it again.
I was used. Your back-up plan.
You were lost, and you wanted to feel loved temporarily until a better offer came along.
I was lost, and I wanted to feel loved permanently, so I fell for it.
The closest thing to what I had been searching for for so long slipped away like sand through the cracks between my fingers, not leaving a trace behind.
In a way, I should be thanking you.
You've gotten more poems out of me than anything else in the longest time
and now you’re good-for-nothing except curing writer’s block.