Maybe love is* I wonder who you were when I didn't know you yet. I want to see how you first came to know the world and the ways the world tried to teach you that it loved you. I want to know if it hurt, and how, and how sweet.

I wonder who you will be when you reach your best, a person I haven't met yet. I wonder how you will love, and how you will hurt, and how you will learn. I want to see your sad smile, your tears, your broken heart; the days that feel strange, I want to be a witness to. I want to cry for you; I want to know you that well. I want your hurt to lie closer to my heart than my own. I want my heart to be jumping out of my chest into your hands. I don't need 'safe'. I need right.

And honestly there's no telling what that means.
I want you to lie beside me, in bed at night. I want each of us to think our own hands cruel, for the possibility that one of us might ever hurt the other. I don't trust my hands, my heart, my lips, my body to ever love you right. But let me tell you at my simplest, that I love you with the most truth a human soul can offer.

That when you are near or when you are far, I love you at the center of my being. That I always need you. That everything that hurts, hurts twice more when you aren't there to lift me from it.

Lift me from my reverie, my dizzy spell. That when your hand isn't in mine, I am always waiting for you. But when we are apart, never mind what is going on in my heart... I smile at the thought of your smile, cherish whatever is making you happy. Maybe it's when you're in line with the groceries, or with the sunlight slanting across your face. You are my every joy, my only, my absolute, my everyday prayer.

I met you as scars carried in the clouds.
You were the thunderstorm I ran through.
A crescendo rattling past the shallow surface of heartbeats,
together we were a depth unto ourselves;
By the souls, we found a loss of time.

(she was there and everywhere,

the sun peaking through the clouds,
and salty beach waves at noon time.

warm beer and burnt cigarettes,
red wine at breakfast.

the smell of new comic books,
and ink splattered on the table top.

watercolors and ripped paper,
shades and hues—weaving, fading.

all at once and gone again)

Everyone has eyes ,but                                                                                                A poet has a cute eye                                                                                                   Simply because he looks                                                                                            Around differently ...                                                                                                   A poet looks at things from                                                                                           A different perspective that                                                                                         Makes his feelings and his                                                                                           Emotions go elevated anytime ...

It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.

It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.

It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.

I'm in trouble...
I've been in trouble from the start.
The moment you climbed into the ***** seat of my car you peaked my interest.
And in that single moment, when your eyes met mine in the rear view mirror, you stole a sliver of my heart.
From then on I knew my life would change; I gained the only light capable of making this black hole of darkness easier to escape from.

You were the light house beacon and I the tiny weathered boat searching for the shore.

Alas you made excuses as to why we couldn't be together and my darkness continues to swallow me, but you still remained my beacon.

I guess I just realized I always loved you.
I was always in love with you, but now it's more clear.
Especially since you are not here.
I'm afraid. I'm terrified in fact.
Is it finally our turn?
No, I guess not.
I still have to play this ******* waiting game, like I have been for 6 years.
I've become fluent in this game.
What's one more year?
7 is supposed to be a luck number, right?

Maybe I'm just bullshitting myself

You've broken my heart before, but we didn't really recall.
We had teenage angst,
Drugs,
Music and
Art to distract us.
Now it's the real world, and this is very real darling.
I'm terrified.
I don't want to scare you with the truth but, hell, I'm scarring myself quite frankly.

Just old feelings dancing with new ones...

When in reality they've been the same feelings all along just amplified 1000 watts, because it's almost our time.
What's one more ******* year?

I need to take a step back.
More like five.
I do this all the time.
I dive and drown.
But we've dipped our toes in the water before..

*You are forever my always