Does he take care of you?
Does he ever make you feel like you want to go home?
Does he undress you on the page?
Does he undress you in the black of an empty room?
Does his kiss make you overdose at night?
Does he make you feel high even when you're dying to be sober again?
When he puts his fingers to your lips, does it make want more of him before he goes?
Does the need for his lips make you put out the cig that's always been bad for your health?
Does he make you feel full even aftter your parents split and you've felt empty since?
Does he make you feel like you can talk about you parents?
Does he calm your neurosis, even when you can't stop organizing your house and degrading your own body?
Does he talk about each part of your body as if each piece is their own Frida painting?
Does he say how beautiful your mocha colored birth mark on the lower part of your neck is?
Does he know how much you hate your mocha colored birth mark on the lower part of your neck?
Does he know how much you can't stand being up before 2 pm on at day of the week?
Does he know how much you wanted to **** yourself in 2012?
Does he know that was the year your parents started resenting each other and you blamed it on your never being home?

Does he know about me?
Does he know about how much I call you at 3 am?
Does he know I still love you?
Does he know you used to love me?
Does he know I know everything about you?
Does he know I know nothing about you?

I know nothing about you.

I always worried that people would notice and ask
In order to avoid any awkwardness or worrisome expressions, I came up with excuses for everyone
My family -- friends --coworkers
I spent day after day coming up with excuses until I realized that no one was going to ask

How do I know, to love you or to leave you?

What will it feel like if I lose you? Did I ever really have you?

Through every toss and every turn, every night without your arm across mine

I wonder what it would be like

If I went through life without ever having known you

Would I be happy or sappily obsessed with the idea of happiness?

Would I smile the way you made me smile? Laugh with the same joy that yours brought mine? Or would I find joy in different things without you by my side?

Maybe I would meet someone new, another one I could pursue and who could make me feel the same way you used to

Or would I still wish it was your arms around mine every time I got close to someone else at night?

How do I know, to love you or to leave you?

On these lonely nights of boredom,
As the clock strikes a quarter past one
Her heavy heart burns with an unnamed emotion
As the tears come undone.

She listens to those gloomy songs and wonders why?
Why does she feel so lonely in walls of her home?
Why do people leave her when they promised that they won't?
Why is life so unfair when she has been so good?
Why didn't she grasp the opportunity when she could?

All these questions burden her pretty little mind.
And she loses herself to a dream-less sleep of some kind.
If only someone could make her realise.. that she doesn't need a shoulder to rise.
She is herself capable of winning and escaping from the mayhem in her life.

Why is it that disappointment plays as motivation,
Why is it that happiness requires creation?
Why is it that a world so fare could be so dark?
Why is it that we can read something so small such as a pen mark?

How do we remember our goodbyes even before our hellos?
How do we write complexity into a prose?
How could I write something so foreign yet so clear?
How could you ever be sure that there will be answers you'll hear?

all she wants to do
is make beautiful things,
but she doesn't even know what beauty is.

this looks nice, so simple, minimalism.
but is it a masterpiece?

question everything. the head is full.

what is art?
what is purpose?
what is pleasing?
what is ugly?
what is permanence?
what is thieving?

and of course there is the, "why?"

it continues.
it continues.

she thinks.
there is no answer.
simply a carousel of questions.

I could never get a straight answer from her, the words didn’t turn crooked at the edges of her mouth. They just didn’t come out… Her forehead would wrinkle, creating a fold at the delta of her brow and nose. She would close her eyes and occasionally flash those electric blues in my direction. I could not help but admire how beautiful she looked trapped in her own indecisiveness. This woman would be the death of me, but **** it, I loved her, I loved her so much that my unanswered questions would never be enough until she confessed to me, she was in love.