If I could tell you how I missed you in one paragraph
The first line should not be the same as what I feel right now
The words that I used to be love actually gone
I will write it as far as I have done
I could not explain all of the memories in my head
Everything I can hold was staying in my bed

If I could tell you how I missed you in one paragraph
I am not sure I could write to you
The sounds that I hear
It is all I will bear
And it’s now standing to fear

If I could tell you how I missed you in one paragraph
My lips were tightened
My eyes were blinded
My ear was deaf
My hand was holding all of the lines that now hope my heart could fine

i want to tell you that you smell like sandalwood soap. and that i can't keep my eyes off your hands. and i want to ask you what was the last thing that made you cry? and then i'd think about what tears would look like in your beautiful eyes, and then i might cry myself. and i want to tell you that you look like heaven on earth, and you wouldn't believe me so i'd tell you again. and again. i want to look at you like you're the last thing i'll ever see and memorize everything about you. i want to give you all of my favorite things and take you to all of my favorite places and then find out what yours are. i want to know what you're thinking about and why. i want to read your words and tattoo them on my tongue. i want to touch you for longer than a second. i want to show you what it feels like to be wanted. i want to show you everything i see in you, if you'd let me.

if you had never fallen from heaven, i would not have loved those broken wings. if your blood did not trail into my house, you would not lay on my couch as i wrapped you up. i've heard heaven is lovely, free of pain and brokenness — but when you are whole, you do not need someone to complete you. no one looks after you, or asks you how you are. but there is only so long i can tend to your wounds. so why, after all these years, do you not spread your wings to fly? did you really fall from heaven, or did you jump?

I've been sad for as long as i can remember. The day my father died is when i started to wonder whether that is the natural state of a 10 year old, to lose a person who is supposed to see you through life until you can hold your own hand.

As cruel as it sounds, I've been wondering when my mother's time will be up ever since he passed on. I keep preparing my mind, every time her birthday comes I tell myself "you've had her for an additional year, maybe this is it maybe this is when your luck runs out".

I never cried about his passing from the day after. I was numbed and I've been numb about it throughout all these years. The only time I came close to crying was a few weeks after he was gone, I was watching the tv and something came up that I really wanted to tell him about. I turned my head to the back and I called out "Papa-". I stopped when I came to the realization that he was not there and he will never be able to hear and respond to the things I say anymore.

Everyone thinks that because I was just ten years old, I wasn't affected much. Due to the fact that out of all my siblings I was the one who knew him the shortest, they thought that I couldn't be the saddest. But that was my father too, I loved him too, I was his daughter too. Everyone thought they were the saddest person. They were so busy with their own sadness, they never checked on mine. They never asked how I was doing, they never explained death nor did they provided solace to my lost and broken soul.

To a ten year old who had to figure out her own emotions, the easiest way was to **** it up and keep it inside.

& when you go through something like that, you'll understand why I say I'll always be sad.

A good story
May very well be
A plot that concludes
However
I've always thought
The most intriguing
Are the ones
Left unanswered

There is a story
That lies in a notebook
On my shelf
Collecting dust
It's only one paragraph long
An undeveloped idea
But an idea nonetheless

It was co-written
By an undiscovered writer
And my ill-equipped self
We wrote an intriguing paragraph
Until
I was hit with writers block

I moved on
Carelessly
To other works
Long novels
Short stories
But still
Nothing more intriguing
Than our one
Brief
Idea

Most days I regret giving up
When I left behind this unfinished thought

And I still wonder
What the story could have been
If it ever continued
From paragraph one

Who knows
Maybe
It’d be a new story all together

All I know
Is that I will most likely never have an answer
But if that paragraph has taught me one thing
It is to develop ideas
Craft paragraphs
And finish stories
Before you put them on the shelf

and the pain unfurls on the ink page like a shuddering scream, a flower so small you can see it only on the tip of a finger held to the sky as if to view a drop of dew. and in the end it grows to such proportions that it begins to stab into the side and just a bit under, and pulls from the very depths of one's chest what once may have been living. and it begins to ache there, see; for this pain here now can only be that which suffocates and feeds on need, on greed, on every smallest insecurity. it binds at the slightest touch of the wind, on the faintest of breaths, and feels love for the first time in the beating of another heart. and it is at this point that the pain which had bloomed so sluggishly, so tenderly, can stand on its own and plunge into its own depths.

and so it is like this that one may wish, perhaps, to end a life of such suffering.