I knew him.
Above all, I need you to understand that.

I knew him, his every crook and premise. I knew-know what his embrace feels like, how to wrap my arms around him, how he'll put his arms tight right above the end of my spine.

He kissed my forehead and I knew.

At night, the way he touched me was familiar.
That's the touch that I will know for a lifetime.

He'd never look me eye to eye when he was upset.
He'd rather spill his sadness to the ground, allowing it and only it to look back into the depth of his sadness.

He'd place his head above my own and let out a breath hitched in the back of his throat when he was tired.

When he was happy, he didn't need to smile or laugh and talk about it. I knew. His eyes were all the clue I needed.

I knew him. I knew him before friendly touches switched lanes, I met him when we were both too ignorant to know how our roads would intertwine and part, part on the mistake of my behalf.

I knew him. Well.

And it's been years now, years away from him, but I still know, and now she does too.

I need you to understand that.
But above all, I need you to understand,
I'm trying to learn you just as well.

*And eventually, I might. I might.

I’ve moved countries.
I’ve moved, and it’s the little differences that remind me of this.
It’s not the massive skyscrapers and old town squares,
the gray skies and cold weather
(oh so different from the heat of skin on skin I’m used to)
It’s not the fast paced life and sounds of a foreign tongue surrounding me

It’s the little things,
like the subtle quietness of my apartment,
and the clack of heels on the floor above me,
the waterfall of TV advertisments,

It’s the sense of loneliness
and the nostalgia of your touch

It’s how I forgot the colour of your eyes,
and the shape of your nose,
your crooked smile and heartfelt laugh

I don’t miss my country,
I’m missing all the aspects of you that are still locked back there.

There's something frightening in you,
and I've always been attracted to the things that scare me most.
I guess you could call it a counterphobic attitude.

Just as all these words are meant for ghosts.

But I'm sick of the sound of crunched eggshells,
and the elephant in the room leaves me crowded.

So hand me that broom;
this dust is being swept under the carpet.

I want my words to be beautiful.
Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things,
Find the magic in them,
And put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.

I want to have a way with words.
I want every poem of mine
To become a masterpiece.
Just like yours.

I am not broken.

But you are.

You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colors brighter.
It makes the value of feelings
Climb higher.

Sometimes I wonder
If I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate
Like yours.

Sometimes I wonder,
If it will be truly worth it
In the end.

I wonder what it will be like,
To cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.

Just like you.

I imagine that you
Raise the blade
Slice your feelings open
And write your masterpiece
In red.

This is a poem
about you

but there's nothing poetic about
your unkempt hair
and your round face

there's nothing poetic about your
constant need of reassurance
"where are you? what are you doing right now?"

there's not an ounce of romance in your disturbed sense of "love"

this is a poem about you,
but it's not a poem about love.

It's a poem about redemption
and regaining of confidence

*it might be about you, but it's none of my concern anymore