the guns in our hands both shot me unabashedly
and the continents have long since drifted apart.
what's mine is yours
but what's yours is only mine
when I include it in my art.
I dont always just want what I can't have
because I wanted you when I had you too.
words were my first love but now
I write because you're you.
this isn't fun
I don't understand
I liked it much more with a gun in my hand.

we took deep breaths of each other's presence
both dreading the exhale
but you were the one that lit me up
and ceased to acknowledge that the buzz would remain after you put me out.
it's been a month of hiding from my infatuation with you
behind the bodies of those that couldn't change the fact that not being you made them useless to me.
it's been a whole ******* month since I've felt your kiss, petted your dog, lusted over your words, gotten lost in your smile, been enlightened by your stories, and been called beautiful in the midst of my vulnerability.
you were my valentine
oblivious to your ability to stop time,
that's why a month has felt like a century
even though it was the shortest month of the year.

your hand held my throat like a flower
and my thorns disappeared.
intimacy cradled us in a way i never knew
a gentle touch teaching me
you belong to the earth,
I owe my efflorescence to you.

it felt like you cared
when we were laying in bed
and you made it your mission to make my hands warm.
then you left to find your sunshine
and forgot you were mine
but I guess that I was warned.
so now I lay alone
with hands that wish they never met yours
because as soon as I had let go,
I realized how cold they always were.
you took away what you had just shown me I needed.
you're a song I can't skip, a craving I can't kick, and a flame I can't put out.
maybe we'll meet again one day, somewhere and sometime,
where we both are radiating warmth.