There is something special about poetry.
Something about how there are line
breaks and deliberate diction that draws
your senses into something melancholy.
The way it can be purely fiction
or nothing but the truth and it’s
all up for interpretation by someone
who stumbles upon it scribbled
on a napkin in a nearby nook of a bookstore.
How when you complete a poem
that you’re particularly proud of,
its satisfying and provides a sense of purpose.
But the hardest part about poetry,
is sharing a selection you love,
with someone else.
The nervous feeling as they read it,
and the mounting disappointment as you realize,
that the work you’re so in love with
doesn’t connect with their pleasure centers
as it does with yours.
Don’t let this be discouraging.
For I believe that if you love something,
then it doesn’t matter if no one else does.
Because if it makes you happy,
that’s all that ever matters.
And if a poem comes from your soul
not everyone is going to love it,
but maybe you’ll find someone who does,
and you’ll be able to talk about all of the
things that make a poem special,
and the way there are line
breaks and deliberate diction that draws
your senses into something melancholy.
And you can fall into circular patterns with
someone who gets what it feels like
to have your poetry appreciated.

The way your name sounds
when it rolls off my tongue
has begun to lose its luster.
And the sparkle in your eye
has faded to a dull glint,
sort of how the sun reflects
off of rusted metal.
And the way you touch your hair
when you’re nervous is no longer as
endearing as it used to be,
because I find myself rather
bothered and annoyed anymore,
when you reach for a limp lock of fading hair.
Fading love is the most difficult.
Because I still see pieces of someone I love
in there somewhere but it seems as though
my love has faded with the rest of you.

In a room full of people as the ****** bar music swells,
I find myself drawn to your sparkling eyes
and how your smile is the brightest light in the room.
I find myself laughing when you do because your happiness is mine.
Or maybe it’s the alcohol that’s coursing through my veins
that makes me reach for your hand and rub against your thigh.
Or maybe it’s the THC in my brain that loosens my lips
and let’s a gentle “I  love you” slip out.  
And when your hand tightens around mine
the muscles around my lips shape a smile
and the pace of my heartbeat quickens
and I couldn’t be happier sitting in a ***** bar
with a half empty beer and your heartstrings tied to mine.

Happiness is just a dopamine rush.
I find myself doing outlandish things to acquire this feeling.
Looking for things that will pump hot adrenaline through my cold veins.
But adrenaline does not compare to dopamine,
or the phenylethylamines that made me murmur
“I love you” as I lay in your arms.
If I could just find something that compares to your kiss on my forehead.
Neurons firing under the pressure of hot lips.
And every time I chase this feeling I fail.
I can feel myself being ****** into a downward spiral
of rebound hookups and late nights that
I can’t seem to remember.
It seems as though the only drug my body comes to life for
is your penetrating gaze, that dilates my pupils
and hands on the small of my back,
that send deep pangs of longing into my stomach.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than
your fingers in my hair and your voice in my ears.
A brain consumed by love can be as deadly
as one consumed by drugs.

They say that the world was built for two,
and I believe this wholeheartedly,
for the sole reason that there
are two seats in the front of a car.
where you sit with someone
you appreciate the company of
and embrace the feeling of both your hands
resting together on the gear shift.
The sound of their laughter swells
as you cruise down a lone road and
find a dead end street in the middle of nowhere.
And you get out and run amongst the fields,
without a single care because in a world built for two,
all you will ever need is your other half.