To you, my heart sleeve, You from whom I pull my feelings like fossils to examine. You my dictionary, my reference book, who helps define and label each one with patience and understanding.

You who lets me write her poetry, who lets me drip her love into these pages just so I may find a better way to know it. You who lets me turn you into poetry like we are in love even though we are not in love. That sounds romantic but maybe its not, maybe it doesn't have to be.

Once I went to a slam poetry night and a man told me that if you write more than one poem about a person you are in love with some parts of them. I have entire forests that bleed and weep your name because I write you so often. Maybe we are some kind of in love but I do not know with what parts or if its even worth saying aloud.

You my rock, the solid foundation on which I would build a home if given half a chance. Permanence of a kind I have never tasted before you.

To you, and you know who you are. My compass, the lighthouse guiding me to shore. I am missing you, as I have been missing you for every moment since we last parted, for every fraction of a second between now and the moment my skin stopped hugging yours.

To you, the owner of a folder in my phone, full of all the pictures and quotes I am saving for when you are ready to come back to me, for when your heart stops aching just enough to let me back in.

To you, the only person who will ever see the original version of this poem where I stitched every word together with your name, even though you may never see this poem because I do not know if I am ready for this yet.