Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Syd Jul 2014
I'm sorry. I've been staring at this paper for quite some time now and still I'm sorry is all I can manage to write. I've been swallowing apologies for months and popping sorrys like pills and still the words will fall out of my mouth whenever I remember the look on your face as I left. I want to tell every single psychologist alive that no number of family dinners will help you survive the falling out brought about by boys and high school and secret cigarettes and no matter how many times you hugged her it will never feel like enough because we haven't spoken in years and no by spoken I do not mean empty words spilling out of tired mouths and lonley lips across plates of food and phones smarter than we were because at least they knew the true value of connection. and do you know I've saved every single ******* birthday card because these words you didn't even have the nerve to write yourself are the most genuine I've never heard you say and the fact that love replaces from or sincerely at the bottom of the page instills the slightest bit of hope in me that maybe eventually I'll actually hear you say it to my face before the day our fingers are laced across your deathbed. and dad I'm sorry that this ******* poetry is the only way I've ever known how to say anything worth listening to but god I love you and I wish I could sew us back together but the distance between us is one no amount of stitches could fix. I wish Hallmark went out of business and telephones didn't exist that way I could hear you say that you love me before the words go extinct on your tongue and stale between your teeth. but all you've left me with are twelve years worth of birthday cards stuffed between my bedsheets and the audacity to sign your name on someone else's four dollar fifty cent masterpiece.
Syd Jun 2014
you know what I think? I think sleep is for people who aren't up all hours of the endless night spending each second whole heartedly loving someone. I think 2 a.m was invented for poets writing poems upon poems about the curvature of his jawline or how her lips taste like stardust and sunshine because one never seems to be enough and do beauty the justice that true love demands. how could you possibly sleep knowing you're wasting minutes and moments and hours spent being subconsciously elsewhere while her hands are empty and he's out there somewhere whispering to the moon and the stars and Jupiter and whoever else is willing to listen about how beautiful you are when you don't think anyone is looking? I once had an entire conversation with the sun about your laughter and the calluses on your palms and the very next night I found myself screaming your name at the sky demanding answers from a solar system that only offered even more questions. the north star swallowed my memories of my head on your chest and your heart beat in my ear and now all I'm left with are smudged letters and holes in the walls a little too big to fit my fists. I want to kick the door of history clear off it's hinges and choke on splinters of pride and apologies. I want to tell you that I intend to fill every single empty part of your heart with my hands and your hands with my soul. you told me I was beautiful. I always knew you were looking.
Syd Jun 2014
I still love him, you know? and you know what else, it ***** because you don't know. he doesn't know or maybe he just doesn't care anymore but I still love him or maybe I never stopped and maybe I never will. it ***** because your name still sits between my lips at night and I can feel your skin dancing on my finger tips. I remember how warm your flesh once was, so much as it eliminated any need for a blanket or a sweater. it still blows my mind into a million different dazed and confused pieces that you're no longer waiting for me when I wake up in the morning with a kiss and two cups of coffee. I still love him. my sketches are starting to resemble the constellation of freckles that are scattered along his jawline. its funny how you never really realize how empty things like your hands and your heart can feel until you lose the thing you used to fill them with. love is a funny thing. I still love him. but what does that even mean when I can't spend every second I'm given spreading kisses along his skin like wildfire or counting his heartbeats or feeling him breathe? does she kiss you where the sun doesn't shine and take the breath away from your lips? does she know that you sleep on the left side of the bed and your heart beats two hundred and twenty seven times before you fall asleep. I still love him. the birds still sing and the sky still dims and the earth still spins, and I still love him.
Syd Jun 2014
I've been thinking about love for awhile now. and I can't even think about how you can't look at the sun for too long without thinking about you. I can't look at you for more than a minute without getting bent about how ******* beautiful you are and how ordinary I am. ordinary at best. I'd plant kisses on your neck for the rest of my days if you'd give me the pleasure and god I've never wanted so badly to franticly run my fingers through your hair and down your spine just to assure myself that your skin is mine to touch for the moment. moment. what constitutes as a moment anyway? when he's looking in your eyes, not at them or as he's pulling you into bed at night? I want an eternity of more or less continuous moments. the truth is I want everything you have to offer and I'd be more than glad to take the good with the bad and always remember that each moment is a monument and I want to make mountains out of molehills just to have more time to fill your fingers with mine. the truth is there will never be enough time in the day or enough ways to say that I love you without feeling like someone else could have said it better. but I love you, god I love you and for whatever it's worth I think the sun ought to be jealous of your smile and you make the moon blush when you speak. they say each of us are made of star dust and the stars are made of us but you and me, we're made of each other. there's an entire solar system that revolves around the inside of my ribcage but I doubt that comes as any surprise to you. you've always been the earth and I'll always be the moon. every piece of me revolves around every inch of you, and I love you. I do.
Syd Jun 2014
they told us boys weren't
supposed to be beautiful.
that girls don't get *****
and every single scraped knee
was worthy of a band aid,
and somehow no one made
it okay quite like your mother could.
boys weren't supposed to be beautiful,
but I don't think they ever saw
your eyes like I did.
and something about your smile
made me forget about skinned knees
and broken bones
and your laughter made me not worry
about sticks and stones.
boys weren't supposed to be beautiful,
but you were.
god, you were.
Syd Jun 2014
I'd sing for you until my vocal chords bled and I dread the day I can no longer play piano because its always been the only way I've ever known how to say that I love you without moving my lips or spreading my hips so I'll go until I can't feel my finger tips because what's something beautiful without a little pain? life's not worth living if you never go insane. so I'll play this ******* piano until I give myself arthritis but the night is young and our souls are old and my hands break more than they hold.
Syd Jun 2014
I remember one summer we planted sunflowers
and I don't remember much else about that time
except for the fact that one day I came outside
and suddenly they were taller than the house
they were beautiful
but they needed the sun to survive
it doesn't take a genius to conclude
that once winter arrived they died
and I've never been much of a gardener
but you were my sun and I was the flower
Next page