I remember the first time you said you were silver.
I didn't understand, even though I thought I did.
It's not that I don't feel good.
It's that I don't feel anything.
...
Although, tonight is a small touch of blue,
swirled in with this silver construct.
I'm not trying to be distant.
I'm not trying to seem empty.
I'm just...
Feeling a little silver tonight.
...
Today wasn't anything special,
like the days before it.
They continue their ceaseless march,
whether we find ourselves able to face them.
...
16 more days.
384 hours.
I wish I could skip all of them and find myself by you.
You reflect all the colors, and I'd love to feel something other than
empty.

They itch so I guess they're healing

but then I need new ones

cause I define the way i feel

by all of my scars

I write when I'm confused
When nothing makes sense

̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶i̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶i̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶i̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶b̶r̶e̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶i̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶b̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶d̶o̶w̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶p̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶r̶u̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶l̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶i̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶t̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶k̶y̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶i̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶k̶y̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶b̶l̶e̶e̶d̶ ̶d̶a̶r̶k̶n̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶i̶c̶h̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶a̶l̶r̶e̶a̶d̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶d̶a̶r̶k̶ ̶i̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶o̶l̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶t̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶l̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶m̶i̶n̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶m̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶w̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶m̶i̶l̶l̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶u̶n̶t̶s̶ ̶m̶o̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶i̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶z̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶ ̶i̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶i̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶i̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶l̶l̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶l̶l̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶

What a good poem.

What's wrong with writing poems
about getting over someone
but still loving who they were?

What's wrong with writing poems
that are vague glimpses into
the things we share (̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸a̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸n­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸d̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸t̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸h̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸k̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸i̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸w̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸h̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸a̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸r̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸d̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸)̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸

I'm­ sorry for crossing out my thoughts
but that's what I do now
and I have someone else

But I like writing to you
because I know you like writing to me
so there's really
nothing wrong
when you
and I
keep writing
Passive-aggressive L̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴏ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴠ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴇ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ Poems

Fall gave way to winter,
snow blankets the ground.
New love gave way to old,
a change we welcomed
but neither of us expected.

You caught me off my guard
when you asked if I still thought about you
about... Us.
Of course I did.
I think about you even more now.

I think about the nights we spent
huddled under a blanket,
exploring so many things;
Finding who we were and even better
how much we both needed the other.
I think about that time
I almost wasn't there to catch you
and how much it hurt to leave your side
and how relieved I was that
I still had my soulmate...
I'll think about the song we share,
you know the one, love.
We sang it together once,
after you had to leave for much, much too long.
I'm so glad we shared that again.
I've thought about the future even,
and how forever is a promise,
just like I love you is a promise.
One day soon, I'll hold you in my arms again.
Until then, all I have
is the snow on the ground.