Can I be both
the center and
the ray

the middle
and the outskirts

and is this longing why
it hurts so much

and why you asked me
to expand?

We will lie and lie
over and over
to try and pretend
that we are happy

I think this is what it feels like
to be even somewhat a normal person?

Is that what it feels like
to be stable?
Not sad?
Not manic?
No some god-awful mixture
of both at the same time?

I don't have much to say.
I only write poems when I'm sad.
Or manic.
Or mixed.
And I'm not.

I'm really not.

The truth is,
my heart still flutters with
just the sight of you.
The truth is,
every time the words "I love you"
threaten to escape my lips
the lump in my throat grows to
the size of a softball that I can't swallow.
The truth is,
I get a tingly feeling throughout my
whole body every time you surprise me
with the littlest things that I love dearly.
The truth is,
watching your chest rise and fall
with every breath you take
as your legs are intertwined
with mine makes everything worth it.
The truth is,
the sound of your raspy morning voice
whispering "good morning" to me
still gives me chills.
The truth is,
I guess I'm sort of in love with you
but since I could never say any of this
out loud,
this poem is for *you.

You lied
and said
you were the Sun

How foolish I was
to keep you
in my Sky

I was warned
about the dangers of the night
About the strangers in the dark

But i was never warned
About the boy who break hearts
About the boy who has a heartbeat

And in a heartbeat, I was broken.

—ej