This is to the boy I write about,
his sharp features and
crippling inconsistency,
the way his name rolls off my tongue
like he’s home and heartache,
crafted into one.
This is to the boy I write about,
He is faintly poetic, and
Unlike what I write, he is raw.
He’s the face of everything
I have yearned for,
he is the face of everything I’ve lost.
This is to the boy I write about,
Whose touch is like fire
and words are vanilla.
Whose honey eyes pierce
into mine too fast, and
make me crash too hard.
This is to the boy I write about,
Whom I borrowed
some pieces of history with
and left the memories on replay,
whom I fell in love with,
forgetting he didn’t know
what love is.
This is to the boy I write about,
Are we playing, honey?
Is any of it real?
When; Where does it end?
And who do we become when it does?
This is to the boy I write about,
A warning, a sign;
Do not fall for me.
I am chaos for your heart,
And we’ll destroy each other
in the heavenly way possible.
And we will understand
When we fall apart,
Why storms are named after people.
My poems are about him, even when they are not.
