recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.

i will never be enough, but that is okay
because i will just never be enough for you.

i will be more than enough for someone else
and i am most definitely enough for myself.

I ache to find my way home;
sometimes home embodies a place
or pray tell, a person.
Home, for me, is my sense of self;
however, i'm afraid that whilst
             - with you -
and allowing you to navigate /home/,
I lost my way.

Please let me find my way home.

The swell of waves
or globus sensation  

and the tongue having
gone through utter drought.

Sandpapered throat
had been choked raw

the pulling back of the (Tide.
Tsunami of thoughts

words lost in the chaos and roar
droplets racing down

drought no more?

I remember the evening
that we sat clinging
to paper cups
of coffee gone cold

over secrets spilled and memories told
two bodies cursed
with hearts grown old

behind your eyes
I found new worlds
A winding road stretched out for miles
to a small cafe at the end of the isle

Sweet pastries filled the mouths
of those who sat beside us
and stayed for a while.

How the hours went by,
people just passing through
The descending sun ending
a forever with you.