You are the almost-silent
of my coffee-stained summer.
You are the clear and tender
plucking of guitar strings
on a lazy afternoon;

With sunlight streaming through
the painted window,
just bright enough to fill the room
but gentle enough to fall asleep to;

with the smell of everything we love—
caffeine and chocolate and banana muffins—
seemingly coursing through our veins
with every breath we take;

with the daydream of
what-could-be lingering
in the haze, in the silence
it sits,
it waits.

I proceed to the only thing
I know how to do
at this hour of day:
I stare at the cars passing by,
all the while wishing
I was staring at you instead.

we were in love
so deep in it
we fell
without rising

but then i deviated;
i broke you with my fingertips.

if only i had known that it was all my fault,
if only i had seen how hurt you were,
if only i had noticed you beneath those stars, aching for me,

i would love you even more.
           but it's fine now.
you have moved on and is transcending into something new.

if only i could do the same too.

I miss you
sometimes
just enough
so that it hurts.

When I feel like
I'm living in limbo,
one half step away
from falling apart,
I think of you
as a panacea
for all of the quiet thoughts
and dead stares.

When I find myself
painting canvases black
at three in the morning
and pressing my nails
into my wrists
just to feel
something,
I wish you were here
to coax me into bed
and kiss me
like you never did.

I miss you,
selfishly and
shamelessly.

And it twists
and slides through
my fingers like paint-
beautiful useless emotion.

I almost wrote a poem
saying it would be
the last one
I ever write for you.
                   I almost meant it.
But I reside in a forest of words
I long to lay upon your feet.
You are the only tenant.
Though I have already seen you hunger
for a wood more abundant with beauty.
You yearned
for the abstract; the colorful.
This is where I failed you, love,
for all I have to offer
is the pattern of my handwriting
against a bleak sheet of paper.
How is that to contest
a canvas
that turns heads
with its baby pinks and powder blues?
So I lay here
in the woods
that swarm with lost things,
longing to see the sun again.
And I am always reaching
      and reaching
             and reach i n g
But I am never quite there.
I lay still in the forest
with an abundance of almosts.

It was one of those days
when nothing else seemed to matter
but him and me.
We strolled around campus
with his hand in mine,
guiding me through the heat.
"Hold on," he interrupted. "Have you ever
written a piece about me?"
"Yes." I have written
a thousand pieces for you, I thought.
"I'd like to read one.
Why haven't you shown me any?"
I shrugged.
Because none of them
do your vibrance justice.