You are indeed art.
Something I can not add on to
due to you already wielding the energy
that is so deathly breathtaking.
My eyes stretch to see as far as your soul.
I’ll never get close enough to touch the colors that perfectly line into your being.
It’s more than awareness of your existence.
nothing is perfect
but what soothed me was your completeness.
You are whole.
He is art.
The only thing to depict you, for art is the only thing I can love from a distance and now so are you.
You are indeed art.
From possession to perception.
Commitment to acceptance.
Grasping to gazing.
Wholeness. Admiration. Art.

Dejection holds same weight as an arrow the second it is pierced into the heart.
Before the restricted movement there’s a pause
of uncertainty.
Doubt.
Oscillation comes into play as I fluctuate between fear and acceptance.
I hold my tongue to prevaricate what is already bleeding from my chest.
I yearned for you how flesh craves
to knit itself over a wound.
Ungrateful, I’ll always be.
Mercy was never an option, an arrow to the heart.
Dejection—directly to the chest.
Shall he never know I still bleed for all the right reasons.
For all the reasons I bleed for you.

And if your eyes were daisies
I’d drift off into a dream like state,
staring in hopes of blooming a new world in your gaze, off the reflection of mine.

I’m a human library.
My heart is single page with one bleeding word.
An empty carcass pervaded by nothing but
shelves and books.
Cut me in half, letters shall pour out.
Calligrams in my fingertips.
My eyes spell a p o l o g e t i c, in advance to the librarian tasked with decoding my being,
Death by literature, cursive written fate.
I’m a human library.
My brain misspells the word love on purpose
It always only finds the characters that spell your name,
as if it was the only way I was taught.
I used my fingers to write memories in every
system I could comprehend.
I understood what it meant to be a library.
A walking poem.
A talking blue ink pen.
I have touched every pain-cured wall
in this museum,
so ask me anything about him, the pages to my mind will unfold
and you will be filled with the same knowledge
As that of a librarian that used to work in a morgue.

April didn't speed by like February.
The days stretched into each other
manually reconstructing all the courage saved up
for May.
June stopped and waited, making sure I felt everything from the years before.
Every second coated in sorrow,
every timeless memory felt wasted.
I drag grief by my ankles
A trail of sentimentality that can not be cleaned
An energy that disrupts earth’s orbit.
I have no choice but to keep going forward.
July will be easier.
I’ll pause and sit in reflection of you
I’ll tell the stars not to scream your name
Summer will be just a season; not just three months without you plus more to come.

There’s letters stitched on each and every bud of my tongue.
I lured the thread from each hole to forge up
words that are only free to waltz inside of me.
So when they hit your ears
I expected your eyes to feed my need of resonance.
your heart to thump to each syllable I’m able to pour out.
I received silence which is familiar
because in it there is no rejection
until now.

I created a finger-painted world that revolves around us.
After every 10th orbit our hearts exchange a tune
a colorful melody with power
to overflow more than ears.
A single hum, coating every dimension.
A frequency etched on every molecule we ever grew to be.
How considerate of the universe to make this all
deliberate or maybe it was just the wind?
Though I know the earth has rolled its way around the sun for eons.
long enough to witness every version of me, loving you.
For this kind of love could never be built
in just a single lifetime.