when winter comes and you're not here to warm me
I'll go find the patient
and gracious sun, waiting,
like always, to kiss the parts of me,
hands,
eyelids,
forehead,
that miss you most

the cuts on my hands
have now become white scars
and I think that says a lot
about how I'm doing

the morning after
I turned the shower on
as hot as it would go
I threw my shampoo bottle
across the tub because
it still wasn't hot enough
to burn you out of me

Inhale
It can't be real, can it?
It's not meant for me.
Tired eyes dart back and forth, nothing makes sense.
The room spins, not from any over used, over priced medication,
Confused, in a love-induced haze,
I remember.
Exhale.
Has it been days? Weeks?
No, mere minutes since I saw you.
Mere moments since the conversations
We cherish so much,
Before the complications.
Uncertain, questioning,
One more time,
Inhale.
It's meant for me.
Exhale.

Make sure to hug her a lot;
She needs it even if she won't admit it.
Don't you dare yell at her when you're angry;
She's had enough of that and doesn't need it from you.
Tell her how much you love all of her freckles;
She doesn't like them and I'll never understand why.
Support her love of art and writing;
She's going to go far with it.
Do whatever you can to make her laugh;
Even if it's embarrassing, I promise it will be worth it.
Don't force her to talk;
She'll come to you when she's ready.
Write about her constantly;
She deserves it.
Never ever take her for granted;
You'll regret it.

during the last week of september
the grass wore a thin layer of frost
that I could have sworn was jewelry

the way your skin
matches the earth
makes me fall in love
with both
just a little more

I write love letters
in a language I don't understand
delicately etched into the leaves
outside your bedroom window
traced into the sheets of a bed
I haven't been in for months
The sentences, the stanzas sound stranger written
than they do when you speak them
mixed and matched
my pen tripping like my tongue over
words and sounds I've never been able to speak

have you heard the way that girl speaks
her voice cracks skies in half and splits seas in two

I don't want to hear about
what my tongue does in the dark
no, tell me
how the words I write in my sleep
for no one but you to see
hit you like a hammer to the chest

you've got my heart
turned inside out
just like your sweater
on the floor in the corner
of my bedroom

we used to laugh at how
your hair would get in the way
when we were kissing but now
I'm tearing my bed apart
frantic
to find just one strand
to remind me you were real

as autumn quietly approached
the cold air against my fingertips,
hanging out of a cracked car window,
began to feel less like a bite
and more like a kiss

and then it was may
and the air touched us
like a lover's wet kiss

It’s not that
You don’t deserve poetry
I daresay that you deserve more poetry
Than could fill an entire book
It’s just that I have ignored
The rest of the world
For so long and
I owe Her
An absolutely gorgeous apology

the idea of not kissing you again
shouldn't make me sick but god ******
the thought of it
is like drinking bleach

I begin to envy the sun
Who sees you dance in the morning light
I start to resent the sea
Who is lucky enough to feel your touch
I grow jealous of the moon
Who gets to know all of your secrets
When all I have is
The occasional evening text
And blurry photos taken by your friends

It’s 2:12am
My red eyes scan every detail of my ceiling,
Trying to find any sense of consistency in the bland drywall.
Rain gently taps against my open window.
The smell of cedar fills the empty space.
A space she hasn’t occupied in nearly six months.
The lights are too bright,
Magnified by my misty eyes.
Wisps of smoke curl around my chapped lips,
Filling in the bleeding cracks.
Our album plays on a loop
Until the storm takes out the power.
I read the scribbled words that she so obviously left for me.
A best friend, an ex lover, an enemy, she calls me.
And I don’t know which of these ideas I hate the most.

I try to write poems in my head
with your lips against mine but
you take the words from my mouth and
make me forget how
to speak in a language that
those who haven't been in love
can understand

it rains every time I'm in your city
you say that it's a bad omen but
I think it's just because
the universe is trying her hardest
to grow flowers out of stones

I'll not write poetry
until the poetry
begs to be written

I'm slowly learning the art
Of being selfish with myself
And not other people

I want to crack you open like
The pages of a book
I always wanted to read but
Could never get my hands on
Write my own words in the margins
Not with a pen but
With my fingertips
Take notes on my favorite passages
Not on paper but
On your lips
Memorize my favorite lines like
A prayer I never knew I needed
And then reread each chapter
Page by page so that
I'm sure to not miss a
Single word or phrase

She keeps asking to read my journal.
I keep saying no.
Because what would happen if she knew
That all I ever ******* write about is you?

You look at me with disappointment and ask if I’m hurting myself again.
For a second your grasp on my cigarette burnt wrist turns into
Her hands pinning me down with the most loving and gentle hold imaginable
Before I’m brought back to the reality where she doesn’t love me and
She never ******* did.
Yeah, I hurt myself.
But these burns spelling out her name are nothing compared to the tears
And gashes and scrapes her absence left me with.
How is it fair that someone can destroy me in my entirety,
But as soon as I try to make my body match the rest,
I’m labeled a danger to myself?
Nothing is more dangerous than
Loving someone who doesn’t give a **** about you.

I’m trying to erase the marks you left all over me,
But every time I get those three words down to just smudges,
You come in, pen in hand,
Tracing over old songs and phrases,
Smothering me so I can no longer stand.
You hand me my eraser, whispering three words,
But never again
The ones I want to hear.
“Get to work”, you say, and walk away.
I look down, eraser in hand, prepared for nothing but
The absolute worst.

I walk to class wearing her glasses and your shirt.
I can still smell her hair from yesterday,
And I can still feel your lips from last month.
I told her I’m not ready, but she didn’t care.
I told you I was ready, and you didn’t care.

sometimes I forget
where my body ends and
where your body begins
where the boundary lies and
sometimes I wonder
if the boundary even exists

stars shine so bright that
we can see them from
millions of miles away
so someone please
tell me how I didn't see you coming

the first sun of December
accompanied by a chilled wind
and frosted leaves, decorated rooftops
came with a soft "hello"
and a gentle "good morning"

it's strange how the
light purple marks she left
so intentionally at 1:20am
make me feel just
a little more human just
a little more breakable

a light powdery layer of pollen settles on my laptop, my coffee cup, my toes which are seeing the sun for the first time in seven months.

the sun heats my right leg and I find myself strangely anticipating the day this warm kiss will become a hot red burn.

the birds have been yapping on since seven in the morning, and I can only assume that there must be plenty of gossip to catch up on since last august.

Does it mean anything
that the trees still had most
of their leaves when she arrived—
we spent the day tangled
watching them fall—
I introduced her to the larks, the wren,
the ever-busy squirrels.

And does it mean anything
that the next morning nearly
all the leaves were gone,
that I and the squirrels both
took a bit longer to wake,
to leave the warmth of our beds.

I wonder what it was that they were missing.

I’m going to need you
To speak for the both of us
Because darling
You leave me utterly
Speechless

first you began to love me
slowly, ever so slightly
and then
suddenly, violently
like a wave that has been waiting
centuries to crash

I’m so afraid that
I’m going to spend the rest of my life
Searching only to find
Artificial second-hand versions
Of that feeling you so violently
Pounded into my chest

I spent at least two hours
chasing a blurry moon through
a ***** windshield
trying to figure out how
you could forget the face
of something, someone
you once wanted so badly
that you took it
without bothering to ask
whether I wanted to share it or not

her eyes were so warm
I swear they could melt steel

Stoner eyes scan the highway
Blurry, chaotic
Nothing looks like it used to.
The music is loud, but it isn't your style.
Smoke escapes the window, but it isn't from your lips.
I have to remind myself
That it isn't you.
It never is these days.
You don't drive that car anymore.
Memories gone, faded
But I can't forget,
No matter how hard I try.
Things are different now.
Uncertain, cautious, confusing
Far more confusing
Far more enticing
Than I could ever hope to be on my own.

if you thirst for the good things to happen
be patient
they will come in waves
like sheets of rain on dry pavement

can we intertwine like
the paints on your palette?
till my green hues
mix flawlessly with your blues?
till there is no me and
there is no you?

a birch tree flirts with a pine
his branches caressing
the ivy crawling up her spine
complimenting the way
the 5pm sunlight
sets her branches on fire

three different beds
and
not one is home

I'm sitting here
falling for you and
you're there
falling into his bed
his arms

happiness hit me
like a bus
it's my fault
for not looking both ways

Your hands are not the first to trace along
Those parts of myself that I hate.

Embracing the discomfort of the backseat,
Protected by foggy windows and songs played
Just loud enough so
That you can't hear my uneven, nervous breaths.

They're not the ones that I want or miss,
But they're the only ones brave enough to touch me
In the last four months.

for the first time
my heart is
breaking and
the tears are abundant
but the words won't come

there's something comforting about
returning to the basics
welcoming a heightened heart beat
with open arms
being okay
once again
with the sweat collecting on my palms
touching my knee to your's
barely enough
for you to even know I'm there

it has been two weeks and
the fantasies are starting
the daydreams where you show up
in the middle of the night hands and breath
shaking
clothes anxious to take their place
on the floor in the corner
where we are no longer lovers
in name or shape
we are sea and mountain we are
paint mixing spilling
into and out of each other
the daydreams where we stay
laced and woven
beneath your grey blanket
until the doves start whispering about us
sometime around seven in the morning

It is so tempting and somewhat expected
To measure a year in numbers.

Twelve months, twelve thousand
More dollars in a bank.

Today, eight months since spring.

In Colorado, only one inch of rain
Since July.

How many trees lost to fires?

I can’t count how many prayers.

Next year I will have three hundred and sixty-five days.

And I don’t intend on wasting
Any single one of them.