You live between the space
of my fingers,
the caress between my lips.

I only remember when I forget.

Like last night
I thought of you, and it felt like
you were there.

Suddenly, my hands felt like yours
Were there.

Creep is such a bad word,
But there is no other way
to describe it.
I swear I was not thinking about you
only to realize that I was.

And then, I felt the familiar weight of your presence.

You live between the space of my thoughts,
somewhere that's not a dream
but also not just a memory.

When I close my eyes,
you are there,
and I question if you're thinking of me.

Every time I think
and I realize it—
you disappear.

But the weight
the weight of you
I'll never forget.

I only remember when I forget

Here we sit at the table,
of our life,
of our home.

It is just you and me,
to say what we feel,
to grow.

I want you to listen,
to my words,
without judgment.

I want you to see my struggles,
without opinions,
without trying to fix them.

I want you to see my struggles,
motivating me,
without pushing me to resolve them.

I wish for you to trust me,
without burdening me,
without demands.

I wish for you to help me,
without deciding for me.

I wish for you to care for me,
to protect me,
without erasing me.

I wish for you to look at me,
without projections,
without fear.

I wish for you to love me,
without suffocating me,
without binding me.

I want you to protect me,
without lies,
but with a true heart.

I want you to hold me,
not out of possession,
not by taking responsibility for me.

I wish for you to walk beside me,
without invading,
without controlling.

I wish for you to accept me,
every dark part of me,
without trying to change it.

I want us to see our struggles,
with empathy,
with solidarity.

I want that after every battle,
there is no resentment,
but peace reigns instead.

I wish for you to tell me everything you feel,
even the things that trouble you.

I want you to know,
that everything I ask of you,
I can give in return.

I wish for you to know,
that you can always count on me.

Take the scissors,  
And cut around the edges of my heart.  
Don't worry about how it looks.  
Fold whatever part of me  
That you need to make the first cut.  
I'd be surprised if you find any part  
Of me that's folded neat.  
The kaleidoscope of construction  
Paper that is me.  
  
I consider myself a collection  
Of scars and different colors—  
Of the things that I like and dislike.  
Even the wrinkled pieces of myself  
I've forgotten about.  
You've brought light to those pieces  
With each snip of your scissors.  
I've noticed how quiet and content  
You've become.  
  
You cut, and I bleed in color—  
Purple, blue, and yellow.  
Of all the shapes you've cut,  
None of them are painful.  
Watching you mix up the different color pieces of my soul,  
Your love, the stick glue that  
Gives these pieces more functionality.  
  
I breathe easier, knowing that you're here.
No longer restricted  
By stagnant stillness.  
You can even fold them into an  
Airplane and sail across the room.  
I haven’t had this much fun  
In a long time.
Don't forget the scrap pieces

The words from your letter drip like honey to my evening delight,
You brighten my soul through the beauty of your creativity
And bring colour to my world as the sun runs out of sight,
Pluck your daring heart from the tree of uncertainty,
And scribble with a smile your heat's intent.

Love is not a circus.
Still, I watched her perform.
I watched her spin around in circles
And pretend to fall.
I watched her paint her face red
And smear her clown mouth.
She laughed at things that weren't
funny, often mixing up the punch line.
Still, I watched her perform.
I watched while she loved another,
A man that didn't know she was there.
The audience could tell.
Any of us could.

None of the balloons that she carried
Seemed to float,
Pretending to trip and fall into our hands. The smeared makeup around her mouth twisted into a smile she didn't recognize.

After the show, she asked, if she really did fall would I catch her?
One of her smiles telling the ultimate truth, Smeared left then off right.
Like she brushed against something.
The start of the next show.
Those ill-fitting clothes weren't so ill
After all.

She fell towards his arms,
Hoping that he'd catch her.
Love is not a circus,
Although their stay is temporary.
Painted faces tell no tales.
Not all injuries heal the same