Is it selfish
That I miss your secrets, your loudness
The way I knew everything
Or I thought I did

Is it selfish
That I miss being the one, you turned to when a mess
Laughing the loudest with
Because there was nothing we hid

Is it selfish
That I miss every **** thing, every habit
Each small moment
Like we were all eachother had

Is it selfish
That I miss calling you mine, the only one who could have it
A world as perfect as you
Even though in the end I made you sad

I want to be the ghost
That haunts your every move
Each car that passes too quickly
Every song thats meant to soothe
Reminding you of the way I sang it when we drove for ten hours straight like we were gods

I want to be the apparition
In the corner of your eye
The laugh on the other side of the room
Who you want to comfort you each time you cry
Thats always out of grasp just like breath was over spring break when all we could speak was in nods

I want to be the hallucination
Every time you go to sleep
In the same way you haunt every day and night I'm awake
I want you to tiptoe around your memories the way I creep
But really I just want to know you hurt the way I do, even though in the end it was my fault you no longer respond

Can't kiss my mother with this mouth

A mouth stained with the taste

Somberly stained with blood

Thick blood drained from my teeth

The teeth pressed into my tounge

A tounge holding back every word

Lousy words that would explain

Perfectly explain why I hate I hate

I hate how much I love whats gone

Could anyone let my eyes be the poem, as I write about theirs forever getting the drowsy eyes compliment? It's not a compliment, my sleepy eyes, the sunspots on my cheeks, and the little dimples near my eyes that only appear when I smile. Can the poet write about his own imperfections? I once told my beloved one that the scars on his visage are not repulsive. Yet, every time I pass by their path in mine, I slow down, ease off just to feel yours on mine even if my face had no scar in it at all. Then why don't I see mine as anything else but faults? Still, I am the only one that sees those faults ,how my nose gets some pink touches when I laugh , the way my hair falls on my shoulders and how I tilt my head a bit when I talk .Then, can I be the poet of my own blemishes, to say that they are not? They are not

Was it that hard from the beginning? I warned it is for all who might want to know. Fear I felt of that, all of which might be none yet peaceful. I was happy; I felt on my own, embracing myself, defending the ones saying it is better this way. But was it for real? Indeed, it was not forever. Since that one time I took that gaze from yours, nothing ever since was the same nor felt the same. Since then, all my made-up arguments faded away. You shattered all my fabricated arguments that insisted being on my own is better, and instead, crafted new ones that wove their path into the narrative of my story. These newfound arguments stirred profound reflections, challenging the very notion that being on my own was amiss from the start. For now, the essence of solitude encompasses your presence, intertwining with my existence in a way that transcends the ordinary, making it a journey of shared solitude where 'on my own' becomes synonymous with 'you being with me.' And who said you being with me is your presence with me? None, I think. Yet it was never the case from the beginning; you were always with me. When was that beginning then? Was it the first glance of us? The inaugural exchange of glances felt like the opening chapter of an unwritten love story. Our eyes, two celestial bodies, locked in a cosmic dance, exchanged a silent promise. Did I say no promises? In that first gaze, time paused, and the world unveiled a symphony of emotions, echoing the prelude to an unexplored star that eventually will be. In that initial prelude of glances, it felt as if the universe was orchestrating the prologue to a love story, a chapter that would set the tone for the enchanting narrative we were destined to weave together. Were we eventually could never know, yet I got to draw all that path of mine and yours, at least for me and my deluded fantasies of us. Beautiful is the word that binds both me and you, without ever alluding to you and me. None could ever know because I was the same for them. Nothing ever changed, yet never felt the joy of being alone ever the same and never felt the need to clarify for myself this feeling, calming, mesmerizing, and warm. It so was yet heavy on the shelf of the unwritten books. Nothing related to you was in the regular measure. Everything flows and eludes control; every sensation seems heightened and imbued with an extra touch of intensity like reading a book in the metro on my way home, or painting while lost in music's comforting dome. Soft touches of everyday grace, I ponder if you'd savor them too, sharing everything I feel with someone who's not even there, imagining the warmth of your presence in every hue. A gentle brush of fingertips on the worn pages, whispers of a connection that spans through countless stages. In the rhythmic strokes of my paintbrush's embrace, I yearn for the soft touch of yours, a delicate trace. As the metro hums and the music plays its tune, I sense your ethereal presence, like a sweet monsoon. Wondering if you'd find joy in these simple charms, in this shared solitude. For is this real, or was it just you, the 'u' I made deep inside? Was this the 'u' I ever wanted . In crafting this 'u,' I wonder if my attempt falls short, if this version of 'u' truly exists or if it might be another 'u' altogether. Yet, in my heart, I find solace in the creation of this 'u,' a reflection of my longing that I cannot share with any other. Does it seem amiss to those who may witness its existence? Perhaps, but their understanding is not the concern. For there is a 'u,' a genuine 'u,' that remains beyond the virtual realm. Will it, too, chance upon these words? Will it sense a subtle sorrow within, a yearning for its tangible presence? I ponder these questions with a heart full of hope, for in this letter, I unveil not just the creation of 'u,' but the deep desire for the 'u' that resides beyond the letters and screens. Even if 'not' were the answer, finding joy resides in the gentle presence of this 'u' within my thoughts. Contrary to the notion that absence diminishes affection, for me, it's a different melody. The longer you remain unseen, the 'u' evolves into a unique and cherished essence. Do you not feel that the authentic 'u' might embrace a subtle touch of wistfulness?