Maybe we’ll meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart

please don’t fall in love with me.
i’ll write about the way your collar bones curve and the way your lip trembles when you’re upset. i’ll focus more on the way you twiddle your thumbs counter clockwise rather than the words slipping from your mouth. i’ll remember your favorite song and listen to it on repeat until the lyrics are engraved into the crevasses of my brain, but i’ll forget why you prefer coffee over tea. please don’t fall in love with me because once you realize i’m not good enough, i’ll write about you until my palms bleed and my bones begin to ache to serve as a reminder that i should’ve tried harder to make you stay. i should’ve focused more on the feeling i got when you held me rather than how many ******* freckles you had on your arms. i shouldve woken you up to a fresh cup of coffee, not tea.

Isn’t it crazy how you could miss a place more than you miss a person? im not sure exactly where this place is , it may very well be your arms but i know one thing for sure its the same person that held your very hand walking down that same street. That spun you around, that kissed you in front of passing strangers. That looked you in the eyes and told you they love you and for that split second you began to believe it? That same person that keeps your mind awake at 4 am while you write about the way your jaw clenches and your finger tips start to tremble just when you hear their name slip from someones mouth. I began to feel sorry for myself because how could I be so cruel to miss the place you would rest your hand on my knee rather than the feeling of my heart pacing faster and faster the closer you got to my thigh? But a place can’t hurt me. A place can’t make me feel like their “one and only” yet when midnight rolls around they’re telling another girl how **** she looks with her hair down. A place can’t make every vein in my wrists go cold at the thought of you with someone else. A place can’t hurt me. But you can, you will, and you did.

6/19/16 12:00 AM
I never understood the term falling out of love, how you can possibly stop loving someone you once would have chosen over life itself. I never understood when he stood in front of me and gave the speech only seen in movies.
"It isn't you its me, I'm just not in love anymore. I fell out of it. You're great really, I just can't."
It's been the phrase used by cowards and the one that no one could ever make sound heartfelt but now I'm sitting in front of you picking apart the words so many have used on people and trying to determine how to say them to you without hurting so much. How to tell you I no longer stop breathing when I look into your eyes and how to tell you that I no longer go to sleep at a reasonable time because I can't wait to wake up next to you.
This thing only seen in movies has now destroyed my life in both ways
And I can't decide which way is worse.

People are poems. Beautifully written, wonderfully designed; marvelous works of art.
People are written with starlight and wonder, with verses of beauty written across their hearts.
people are walking rhymes,  walking wonders, sometimes you will never understand or find out  walking words that tell , stories of freedom and redemption sadness and love but that’s what we call life isn’t it ?
People are poetry, people are songs, and people are melodies that are sung on
Bright summer days in a car with the windows down.
People are the words of grace, they are the words unforgotten, and people are words that remain unknown.

Lorsque vous me demandiez
Si je voulais écrire pour vous ,
Je ris , et répondu .
" Je ne suis même pas écrire pour moi-même ,
Je ne vous écris pas du tout vraiment,
Je suis juste un navire ,
la poésie m'a écrit
et coule à travers moi ,
sans cesse ,
pour l'ensemble du monde à voir





When you asked me
If I would write for you,
I laughed, and answered.
"I don’t even write for myself,
I don’t write at all really,
I am just a vessel,
poetry writes me
and flows through me,
endlessly,
for all of the world to see

3:11 am / The 23rd of May

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized I had fallen in love with you.

But I just remember holding your hand under the stars and realizing how much it was going to hurt when I would have to let it go.