i lost it
to the mountains, that night when
the fireplace consumed log after log
throwing orange red and yellow
across the underground walls, and
the river rushed above us
winter wonderland;
where three feet beds of snow
kiss jagged glacier lips and
bleed rivers.

i lost myself
that night, with you
(to you)
*in the mountains.

never will it cease to amaze me
how little it takes to spark
so all-consuming a flame.

i like writing you poetry -
at 2 am, night lights glowing through
rain streaked windows, i listen to the city
and wish you'd listen to me.

i like writing you poetry -
angsty little love notes where
every word betrays the cool countenance
i otherwise wear on my face when
we're warring with our words but
teasing with our tongues.

i like writing you poetry -
it's where i can tell you the stories
that belong to the dead of the night
and the dead of my heart.

i like writing you poetry -
because it's the only way
i can tell you that i love you
*without you ever having to know.

my sadness is tired of being sad,
it doesn't know happy;
it wants to go to sleep
and never wake up -
(like me).

it hurts to write down
all the words i feel.
memory is a blade,
slashing through the numbed skin;
i bleed in thoughts.