To give me a voice is to give a flower to the wind.
To help me create beauty out of pain was unexpected, but I say thanks and thanks again. Though I do not know you anymore I sometimes close my eyes and hear your voice beyond the door. I remember whispers of better tomorrows and your lips faintly kissing the day away from my wearied cheek.
Though I do not know you anymore your ghosts live around me. They are there when I cannot breathe and push me further down, but recognizing their mistake they are the hand that helps me off the ground. They feed my darkest demons yet encourage my wildest dreams.
No longer do we speak, but your words are etched within my veins. Every wound screams like you while the beating in my ribcage echoes songs sung softly in your sweet tenor.
We do not go a day apart. Your actions stand firmly in my mind and your promises weave in and out of my heart.
To ask for a change would strip me of skin, muscle, and bone leaving nothing but an empty soul and meaningless name without a home.
No matter how hard I try I cannot relearn a language that has been ossified.
No matter how hard I try I cannot forget the eloquence of walking and running for the first time.
To step with brand new feet, to speak with a brand new tongue, is something that cannot be done.
I can remodel and refine this body and this mind, but traces of you will linger my friend.
To make another understand that I cannot love without loving you is to turn my life on end. And though I do not know you anymore this voice that you have made for me will send that flower flying over the seven seas.
Though I do not know you anymore I thank you for making me free.

How beautiful it must be to move.
How wonderful it must feel when your heart skips miles around the girl with the gorgeous smile.
Oh, what a precious gift this thing you call love.
But she can’t pick her feet up off the ground.
Her body won’t even let her turn around.
She can only hold on to what she knows.
She can only reach out to things; she can never keep hold.
You want her to understand things she cannot grasp.
But too much time has elapsed for her to believe in the truth.
Words have no meaning to her now; they must have proof.
And though I know you wish to see her dance, you must give this stillness a chance.
Hold her face in your hands.
Trace for her a smile, but make no demands.
Place your thumbs at her temples and slowly close her eyes.
Keep her dreaming for her imagination is the only place where she can picture leaving with you.
Listen close to her breathing and you might hear a hop or a leap, maybe even two.
Draw then those thoughts with the tips of your fingers down the veins in her arms.
Help her remember that her blood flows all the way to the ends of her toes.
Watch as they tingle then twitch and know that it was thoughts of you that made her body move, if only an inch.
And before disappointment sets in remember that you can expect no more from the girl with the gorgeous smile because an inch for her is more than a mile.
It might take her a while, but one day those feet will uproot and her arms will sway back and forth with the wind.
This is the calm before the storm.
She needs the stillness before your dance can begin.
Time is merely holding your heart until it is ready to perform they way it once knew.
Waiting to send you running miles with the girl’s gorgeous smile.
Then your hearts will skip together in love, the perfect dance of two.

They say sometimes falling feels like flying.
And every time I catch you eyeing me I wonder how it would have felt to fall with you.
To stand there hand in hand at the bottom taking in the view up above.
What if we had?
Could we have called it love the words we shared and the nights your breath entangled itself in my hair?
Would our secrets have surrendered and made themselves into promises?
Would we exhale the inhales that we had been holding onto and uncross the fingers behind our backs?
If we had fallen would you have looked down or trusted that the ground wouldn’t break our bones?
Would you have let the wind allow you to soar?
Or would you have searched on your own for something more than the tiny echo of a dream we had?
If we’d fallen would you have listened to the way our hearts were able to sing?
Yours the melody, mine the harmony; together they’d bleed so easily.
Or would the shouts from below drown out our song?
Would you have listened if the said we would never last long?
Or would you hear the voice of reason saying we could build a foundation to hold up the clouds and make a river to keep the stars set in stone?
I can’t help but wonder which you would believe in and where we would be if we’d known that love doesn’t happen on it’s own.
Maybe we would have fallen slowly and landed surely.
We wouldn’t have clung so tightly to the edge and wasted so much time worrying about the end.
If only someone had told us that falling could send us flying maybe we would have found letting go something worth trying.
So sometimes I close my eyes and see us cannonballing side by side to the ground realizing that happiness was never up, it was down.
But I never get farther than that because with eyes wide open I know that love is all about timing.
And even though we were almost there our words were just words and your breath found its way out of my hair.
We were too late.
No matter how hard we fought, time doesn’t wait for love to make up its mind.
So instead of falling we fell behind.
And I’m stuck here wondering what we missed every time I look into your eyes.

They say that the world is reducible to four elements.
That everything can be translated into mathematical equations.
And that love is just a chemical reaction.
But if that means we have to believe in everything we see, then I’ll prove them wrong.
Because there is no way to breakdown a touch and no equation that could solve the looks we share.
There are a million elements that go into breathing un-breathed air.
And I know that there are things that are better left misunderstood.
Like the stories echoed back and forth between the woods.
And the way time flies like shooting stars in the night sky or how dancing in the rain always seems to soothe some sort of pain.
There is just something that shouldn’t be explained about the connection between a mother and daughter or the sun’s reflection on the untouched water.
There should be no definition to the secrets shared between friends or how the world is going to end.
We aren’t supposed to analyze and interpret the silence after a fight or the meaning behind an untied, flying kite.
There is no reason to decipher what creates the color blue or the heat of the sand underneath you.
There can’t be anything rational about tears of pure joy or all of the things we’ve destroyed.
It’s impossible to teach a heart when to skip beats or words when they can speak.
Because beauty lies in the unknown, held by the hands of things that are better left alone.
Those hands are what create the empty spaces and unfamiliar faces.
They leave us mystified and misty-eyed.
Their fingertips are the ones that give us goose bumps and raise the hairs on the back of our necks.
They drive us crazy and wild and most of all they remind us what it was like to be a child.
When our eyes were open wide to the shape shifting clouds in the sky searching for answers, and every single last one of us were dancers, painters, singers, dreamers, and believers.
But time has stripped us of our innocence and filled our minds with ignorance.
Forcing us to see things that should not be seen and saying things that should not be read and convincing us that we can explain anything before we go to bed.
So I wonder what that leaves us when we close our eyes.
What will happen when we’ve taken out all the mystery of the night sky, when we’ve calculated and concluded just how many breaths it takes to fall asleep, when we’ve found and sold the exact chemical that will make our knees go weak?
Where will we imagine?
Where will we create?
Or are we no longer allowed to decide our own fate?
Are we doomed to hell because we’ve fabricated heaven?
Are all our dreams bound to lead to dead ends?
When will we close our eyes and believe in the things we can’t see?
When will our hearts set our minds free?
It is time for us to leave things misunderstood and comprehend that living with unknowns is good.
Once we take back our innocence and throw out our ignorance the world will finally make sense.

I want to tell you things only you will understand.
I want to feel my hair running through your unkempt hands.
I want to make you a symphony out of everything you’ve ever done for me.
And then I want to direct the melodies through the air and through your ears.
And I want to keep them there.
I want them to sing you to sleep each night you are afraid to close your eyes.
And I want you to know you’re the person I want to write poetry to.
How can I make you comprehend that I feel your pain in the darkest of days,
That when you’re too scared to look back and too tired to look ahead, I’ll sing my refrain until the end.
When you feel like the world is out to get you and the sun will never shine again,
Let my whispers echo through your head:
You’re the person I want to write poetry to.
Once you’ve realize it’s all for naught,
That there are no words, no feelings, no lessons left to be taught and all the wars have already been fought.
When there are no more open doors, I want to take you by the hand and give you all the things that won’t exist and all the things you’ve never felt before, and then tell you that
you’re the person I want to write poetry to.
At any time of day
Under the moon or under the sun
In silence and solace
Or chaos and loudness
You’re the person I want to write poetry to.
Whenever you’ve hurt me
Or whenever you’ve loved me
Whenever I am no one and on those lucky days that there is no one else above me,
You are the person I want to write poetry to.
When I see the tears in your eyes and hear the truth in between the lines,
When your smile brightens the darkest of rooms and your laugh is undeniably true,
You’re the person I want to write poetry to.
Every time you slip and stumble and your heart is close to crumbling to the ground
I’ll wrap your wounds with words and tell you that you are the person I want to write poetry to.
Even when your song is loudest and you need no one else to sing,
I’ll be there echoing:
You are the person I want to write poetry to.
Because sometimes even the good days are bad and you’re unsure of how to be happy without being mad.
Sometimes everything isn’t enough and it seems like the road will always be this rough.
And those are the days
And those are the times
when I’ll be there by your side
Conducting the symphony you’ve helped me to create
Whispering words only you would understand
And as you run my hair through your unkempt hands I’ll remind you that you,
You are the person I want to write poetry to.