I still feel bad that you never got to read my poem that I wrote for you,
not as a muse or inspiration,
but as a genuine ripped sleeve
that held my heart exposed beating,
rapidly, erratically;
when the only thing that could calm it down was your tender embrace and your own heart beating just as wildly.

Your madness made sense to me,
your pain felt known and homely.
I wanted to hold you and breathe into your foreign fragrance,
that felt home to me.
You were a missing piece,
an important bishop missing from the checkered board.
Without you, life had no structure and no fun.
Emotions had their ups and downs
but never as strong and never as abound.
You made sense to me,
my heart felt safe with you
but still it hurt the most with you.

It aches more longing for the days when you held it,
but I’m not over the pain that you triggered;
maybe I wasn’t over it,
maybe I wasn’t done being my old self,
who craved destruction and wanted war unto herself.

Maybe I’ve healed enough to touch your icy heart again,
maybe I’m warm enough to cool you down to retain,
your blissful sweet nothings
and careless slippings of fondness and laughter,
of smooches and simple hums
and running your fingers through my hair and your chords;
with little rhymes for no reason,
to harmonise the songs in off tune and high key,
to sing our love songs in glee.

It was a brief time, the winter nights stayed short.
you showed me a world that I never imagined,
and with you I want it all.
It didn’t last, some things stay beautiful just as memories,
but I’m not over how you’re so warm and cool,
so strong and sensitive,
so brave yet a fool.

Maybe if you return I could see
what long summer nights bring to me.
Maybe it’d be long enough
for you to make base,
to stay here and embrace,
my emotions and me..
perhaps this time, you’d be selfish
to stay just for me.