This is to the boy I write about,
his sharp features and
crippling inconsistency,
the way his name rolls off my tongue
like he’s home and heartache,
crafted into one.

This is to the boy I write about,
He is faintly poetic, and
Unlike what I write, he is raw.
He’s the face of everything
I have yearned for,
he is the face of everything I’ve lost.

This is to the boy I write about,
Whose touch is like fire
and words are vanilla.
Whose honey eyes pierce
into mine too fast, and
make me crash too hard.

This is to the boy I write about,
Whom I borrowed
some pieces of history with
and left the memories on replay,
whom I fell in love with,
forgetting he didn’t know
what love is.

This is to the boy I write about,
Are we playing, honey?
Is any of it real?
When; Where does it end?
And who do we become when it does?

This is to the boy I write about,
A warning, a sign;
Do not fall for me.
I am chaos for your heart,
And we’ll destroy each other
in the heavenly way possible.
And we will understand
When we fall apart,
Why storms are named after people.