I don't know the touch of your hands on mine,
I don't know how you look at 7 in the morning.
I don't know your favourite nursery rhyme,
I don't know the weight of your arm on my neck.
I don't know how you look when you are in love,
or how you manage to laugh on days where smiling is impossible.
I don't know what you're most scared to lose,
or how many times you have.
I don't know the feeling of your lips on mine,
or why God modeled the oceans after your eyes.
I don't know why I can listen to you speak for hours on end
and never get bored,
or how my definition of 'home' is so encapsulated by one person.
I don't know, and that's okay.
You can teach me.

Dear Mr. Someday,
I am looking for something that cannot be found.
A picturesque alternate reality
where my heart isn't a punching bag for every boy who's ever
"just wanted to see me be happy".
On days where the sun is the second to last thing I have left to believe in, I realize.
There's still you.

I'd like to know how you are.
Are you happy?
Are you seeing somebody?
Oh.
I understand.
I realized that my hands weren't the best at holding onto things that inevitably leave. Everyone always just
leaves.
Maybe in another lifetime.

Dear Mr. Someday,
I will not wait for you.
I will not stare until the grains of sand forget how to fall
waiting for you to come find me.
I refuse to dedicate my life in finding a man that
cannot love me more than I can love myself.
Your hands did not pick me up from the bathroom floor at 3am,
your arms did not hold onto me as the earthquake inside me
shook me until I could no longer stand,
your words did not take the sting out of my insecurity,
after every heartbreak,
after every night spent in the corridors of my mind
wondering what the **** is wrong with me,
it was not you.
It was me.
And it will always be
me.

Dear Mr. Someday,
I'd like to meet you.
I hope the feeling is mutual.
Hopefully, we can catch up on everything we missed.

You were never good with names.
I swallowed your every attempt of choking my name
through our lies up your throat with a smile.
Your smile holds every last bit of my happiness
and now I wonder why I haven't been happy.
Oh, right.

You are the mismatched sock in my life.
You were hardly there; but when you left-lost for good-
nothing was right.
Replace my my heart now. You took that too.

But I'd rather feel you through this pain
than feel nothing at all, because then at least I know it was real.
I'd rather remember you as teardrops
because at least I'd feel you on my skin again.
I'd rather hear you in my screams
and speak through pen and paper
than to realize;
you're gone.

Since the first day I met you
I've compiled a list of ten things that I wish I could tell you.
ONE: I wish I could wipe that stupid grin off your face whenever you mention your ex-girlfriend because if she's your past, I'm your present and to be honest I don't know what's coming up next, but God knows that I will fight for you. That somehow, some way, although God managed to create the sun and the stars in seven days, you gave me a life's worth of love in the first two seconds I met you. Arms outstretched, eyes not quite reaching mine, your stride as you passed me in the hall was brisk, you looked as though she ****** my name from your lips,
you looked at me,
you smiled and said 'hey'.  You see, there are moments in your life you know you will remember as your mind grows old and fades into nothing, and that was one of them. You said a three letter word in my general vicinity and until today I crave the three worded sentence that will validate everything I wish I could say in the three years that I have wanted to know what you sound like at 7 in the morning.
TWO: I want to **** the name of your ex-girlfriend from your lips because it's just another reminder of everything I'm not.
THREE: I'm sorry I'm not her.
FOUR: Let me backtrack, I'm sorry you can't have her.
FIVE: I love you.
SIX: I don't think I could stop if I tried
loving you. But I can trace my name into you as many times necessary for it to make an impression, indentation on you.
SEVEN: and I will choose you every time she didn't. I will choose you at 2 in the morning and you can't sleep. I will choose you when you are drunk and everything that I'm not falls out of you. I will choose you and hold onto you as though it is the one thing in this life I am meant to do.
I will choose you until the sun doesn't rise and ice freezes over the world because there is no way possible that I could get cold feet when I am with you. Wrap your arms around me, smile, and wake me up in a way words can't, until I am singing with the birds, "good morning". I will choose you, I will choose you, I will choose you. I will choose you when you can no longer remember my name and all that remains is her.
EIGHT: Don't text me at 3 in the morning. Call me, or better yet, come visit me so my dreams don't have to be dreams, they can become a reality. Dreams are great and all, but I'm not about the material, fictional, idea of you. I want you like how I want my tea; pure and without all these little filters. You see, love to me isn't always about the physical. Teach me how to paint and I will paint your name onto every part of me that doesn't remember your touch. Teach me to see the stars and don't stop until I can speak in angel.
NINE: All my poems are about you. The way you are set in an irreversible state of gratitude and how God must have spent two years longer on you just so he could paint each mole on your body in hopes that I would be there to connect them. Or how you never try to stretch too high  so your belly doesn't peak out of your shirt, and wear sweaters in the middle of summer when it is 30 degrees. If you see him, you'll know it's him. He's probably wearing his favourite outfit; heart-shaped sleeves and stars for eyes.
TEN: I wish I could tell you that I see your face in rain clouds and write you into every poem, hoping that you'd somehow find a way to become closer to me. I wish I could tell you that I'm not much of a poet, but you are my favourite poem. You give me writer's block, reminding me that you have to work for what you love, and that if your really, really, really love something, you can't will it into being.
That love is harder than you think it will be, and sometimes it will be messy, and will feel like it's impossible to write again. But all those poems were just practice, helping you get to a new level you never imagined you could get to. You see, in every poem I write I hope to find a better understanding of how you have the audacity to love when everything in your past tells you otherwise. Why your lips are like the composers to my melody, we make the best music. I wish I could tell you that it feel like my heart plays jump rope whenever the ground splits in two and my name slips passed you lips, just before slapping you across the face because not even God could have made my knees fall to the floor and beg for mercy. I wish I could tell you that I am horrible at math because there isn't a number large enough to quantify love. But if I really, really needed a number for the things I wish I could say,
it would be
one:
I love you.

You gave me a guitar string heart.
Every word you played me with reverberated in my chest
making me feel like I was something worth listening to.
As though I had the power
to drop the crescendo of your eyes,
to mine,
and love you to the beat of your favourite everything.
I was wrong.
Now all that's left is an out-of-tune guitar
that hasn't been played in two years.

I want to dive into your thoughts,
and see the world from your eyes.
Tell me your favourite flower,
learn the little things.

What do you think of when you wake up?
Your favourite word?
Favourite memory?
I was kind of hoping
that it would be me.