the harsh reality of life is that everything moves on
and for things to move on, first other things have to end

people leave;
they leave you and they leave places and they leave things behind
and sometimes it's messy, and you'll cry and hug your pillow at night
because it's the only thing that has stayed
and people may leave places, and maybe you'll be a person leaving a place
but you'll be finding a new one

everyone finds their way, and an end is just a new beginning
because that is the true meaning of moving on

and maybe you'll look around your new house in a new city or even state or country
and you'll find something; a letter maybe, from a person who left
or a bracelet, or a picture- anything that holds a memory
and you'll remember them, and it won't be because they left
it will be because they moved on, and luckily they left you with a piece of them
because we are all made up of fragments of other people and places and things
and no matter how hard we try to piece them all together quickly and with shaking hands,
we can't

and sometimes the puzzles that are our souls will be messy,
and you'll cry and you'll hug a new person
that hasn't left yet because you're missing pieces you think you'll never find

but one day you'll complete the puzzle
and it won't be the end
it will be moving on

you had two tattoos,
long brown hair
and brown eyes that had green flecks in the sunlight

you had big dreams
and a scraggly beard
and a love for me that I didn't understand

you had an acoustic guitar
and calloused fingers
and strong shoulders

you had a love for poetry
and a hate for your dad
and a strong nicotine addiction

you had my heart in your hand
and my secrets in your mind
and my fingers intertwined in yours

you had a lot of hopes
but they were never enough
because you took them
and shot them down
with silver bullets
using the same gun
your mother used
to escape

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she’ll end up caring for you more than she cares about poetry
and that will mean destruction for both of you
she will compare you to the stars and the breath out of her own lungs
and she will count the minutes until she can be with you next
this is entirely troublesome, especially if you don’t feel the same way
although if you don’t, a heartache will be cause for more inspiration
I suppose love is a win win situation for writers-
fall in love, you have inspiration
fall out of it, you have inspiration

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she will get to attached
she will love you too much
she will fall in love with the curve of your spine
and the form of your smile
and the structure of your bones
and the placement of your words on her mouth
and the way your hair falls floppily out of place
and the way you don’t love her at all

never fall in love with a writer
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
never fall in love with me

I write poems on my skin for you.
You say you love me and then leave
and I write you poems on my ******* skin.

The ink sinks through all the layers that cover my bones
and almost poisons me.
It worries me that I don't even care
and even more that you wouldn't either.

There were certain things in life in which I was absolutely certain;
you were one of them.
You were one of those things that I thought would never leave.
Constant, like the ocean.
But the tide came in and you got washed away.
And I was left with nothing but uncertainty.

And you left on purpose.

When I think of you two words come to mind; reckless abandonment.
Only I was the reckless thing and you were the abandoner.
And I feel completely foolish for missing you.

I wrote a haiku on my skin for you;

Those who I love leave
Recklessly and forever;
tide sweeps you away.

There was a time when the only thing you could see
behind your eyelids were your mother's big blue eyes-
and now you have to concentrate to remember her.

There was a time when your dad was the only person
you'd let see you cry but now he's the only one
you won't.

There was a time when family meant the world to you,
when you were asked to draw a map in elementary school
and all you did was draw a human heart with the veins
all leading to stick figures of your parents.

There was a time when you were young and you sort of
realized that everything was not how it should be,
you thought "normal kids aren't like this" and
"normal parents don't act like this", until it became
your normal.

There were days when you wouldn't eat simply because
you watched your mother do the same.

There were hours when you'd take pills and lie in bed
because it was normal,
because you'd seen it.

But now you are older and you still have that infectious smile
but you know better, and family isn't connected to your heart anymore.
They're connected to your brain, where memories are stored.

There were days you spent letting go of the past, letting go of those
big blue eyes and the man who you'd let see you cry;
letting go, letting go
letting go
*let it go.