I'm afraid to write about you.
In the event that you're gone, you will have been made immortal within the ink of these pages. I'm afraid to write about you, and the way you can caress my body with your ocean eyes, sending endless waves through me. I'm afraid to write about the way you breathe when you sleep, like a metronome lullaby, keeping perfect time with my own breath. I'm afraid if I were to write about you, that I'd never be able to rid myself of your touch, even if I hadn't felt it but in the dreams that'd haunt me. Anyone who reads my work will know you, nameless nonetheless. I'm afraid to write about you, but look what I've done.
I wanted to be a city,
decorated in winking lights and lively seas of people. I wanted to be a home, warmed by the sunlight, alive as the garden out back. Today, I am neither of these. I am nothing but a vacant chassis of progression, where every day a piece of me builds and then crumbles. I am content with this.
I love the sight of
flower petals on creased sheets; they remind me of how you'd undress and expose my bare skin to the spring sun.
I like the way your
lips feel, pressed to my collar. I like the way your fingertips dance on my skin, like it's what they're meant to do.
On this Earth, there are
millions of people that walk these moonlit streets. And nothing compares to the favor the moon has for you.
You're so magical, and the moon is envious.
Don't fall for any
fantasy you have of me. I am real and I am dressed in imperfection. I hope you won't feel let down.
Somehow I already know
how it ends, even before it begins. Call it some type of clairvoyance. But you were unexpected; you weren't part of the plan. I chased you from the comfort of the only path I knew, and now all that I know is how lost I'd be without you.
Why do the good feel at fault?
We are not the problem. They are. We tend to every open wound tirelessly, in return once our backs are turned They reach for handfuls of coarse salt to undo all the hurt we healed. But it’s ok. We don’t learn. Still we will tend to the oozing abyss as if made by our fault. Maybe it is. Maybe it is our fault, For not seeing the salt.
There are inner battles that Are waging within my soul. Insecurity strikes with Swiftness of the snake. (2) Awaken, rejuvenate. Life is far too short to waste Precious breath on tired souls. Awaken your peace. (3) I was so used to reading Others emotions like it Was biblical scripture. You make me humble. (4) I stopped feeling the need to Read into everything when You showed me an open book. It's such a relief.
You are ever changing;
You are brand new. Eyes like a glacial melting Over the ocean blue. I want to experience this rebirth Within you in full bloom. Steady as the roots of Earth, Dominant as the pull of the moon. From the perspective of one Who finds darkness in everything; You are every ray of sun Inside of a cold, winter's dream. Darling, you are golden and green, Just as the rolling hills of Aberdeen.