Love is not four letters put together.
It’s you and me laying underneath the night sky
on a blanket too small to fit both of us.
It’s me wanting your eyes more than
any of the stars above us.
Love is not the words found on our lips.
It’s the silence I found your heart in at 3 am.
It’s the silence you found mine in too.
Love doesn’t live inside our hearts.
It’s carved into our bones.
It itches in our fingers.
Love is what keeps the pieces inside of me
together when I feel your hand brush mine.
And on the days that leave you at your weakest,
I will pull you close and remind you
that I’m still here,
and love is not just a feeling.
It was never just a feeling.
It’s the liquid you’ve put in my veins.
It’s the warmth I feel
when I wake up every morning.
I’m all out of metaphors.
To put it quite simply:
love is what I see in you.
And you are beautiful;
every piece.

The lines in your hands are important to me.
They’re still important to me after 9 months
of not telling you how my day was
Or asking you about yours
Of not seeing your eyes crinkle every time you smile
or leaning into you for comfort like a child.
Your laugh is important to me
It is still so important to me after 9 months
of not hearing it
and now half-forgetting what it sounds like.
And I
in my softness
miss you so.
Miss you so that I sometimes cannot sleep
Cannot sleep because I am thinking of you
and the lines in your hands
and your laugh
and just how whole
you made me realise I could feel.

They forgot to tell you it's not always easy,
that just because the ocean seems so
calm at night
doesn't mean it doesn't ache
for morning.
They forgot to tell you it takes time,
that weeks may feel like hours
and months may feel like years.
That it only grows deeper in patience
and stronger in absence.
They forgot to tell you it speaks louder
in silence than it ever could in words,
that it listens closer when my hands
talk to yours,
that it lives inside your bones,
and not inside your heart.
They forgot to tell you it makes you
weak at the knees,
and strong in the head.
That it can fill every broken crack,
and heal every open wound.
They forgot to tell you it will leave scars.
They forgot to tell you that you can
give it all away without ever having
it given back to you.
They forgot to tell you that is okay.
They forgot to tell you that memories
don't fade away.
They forgot to tell you that it hurts.
They forgot to tell you what it means.
I'm here to tell you that it's worth it.
I'm here to tell you that you're worth it.

I took my time today.
I walked the way I used to walk with you,
not worrying about where the next step took me.
I missed two buses.
I got home half an hour late.
Or early.
It doesn’t matter anymore,
everything is relative.
Next week will be this week.
Yesterday is already tomorrow.
I’ve always heard that time is cruel;
too quick when you want it,
too slow when you don’t.
I’m not really sure what to think anymore,
because it’s been three months,
but I still think about you every day.

Often
I
Think of you not thinking of me
My heart stops
swallows
holds itself together with tiny hands.
And you got your license
after the fact -
Us.
You found a job,
probably found happiness
when you lost me.
I washed down
the rivers in your heart
The ones I had thought
were gold and silver fountains that we drank from.
You sit
eating dinner slowly
laughing at the television
licking your knife clean.
But when we both watch the same sun set
I am
quite empty.
I Think of you not thinking of me -
When will I
Think of me.

I leave the lights off whenever I get home now.
My eyes don’t care much for looking around these days.
My heart was never big enough to get lost in anyways.
They say we haven’t seen most of the ocean floor,
but I could tell you all about it right now.
And that’s okay.
I’m not okay,
but I’m okay.
Even the sea must let go sometimes
and trust that its tides know where
they must be.
Even the waves know it takes time
before they can be free.
I don’t need light to see that darkness
knows how to wait patiently.
And I’m not scared of the dark anymore,
since I’ve realized that it’s just a part of me.

I’m scared.
I’m scared that one day I’ll be numb,
that quiet fields at 3 am
will no longer remind me of you,
that I won’t notice worn cracks in the sidewalk,
that this smile I wear might actually be real.
I’m scared this heart is empty,
because you took everything when you left it.
I’m scared because you saw every corner of it
and you didn’t run.
I’m scared to love,
because I know how it feels when I’ve lost it.
I’m scared because the words don’t come easy anymore.
Because I can write a poem for each one of the trees
outside my window,
but I can never find the words for you.
They wait patiently in the distance between us,
so I guess these simple ones will have to do.
I’m sorry.
I’m scared that one day the ink inside these veins will dry up,
and the letters won’t arrange themselves the way I want.
But maybe that’s already happened,
because this is how it feels to have all the things to say
and no way to say them.
I’m scared.
I’m scared because these words are all that I have left,
and you’re not here to read them.

I’m letting go of all of it.
Or maybe it’s just seeping out.
Melting through my fingers,
dripping into letters,
pouring into words.
I’m losing parts of me,
but it’s the only way
to lose parts of you as well.
Because you still
live inside these hollow bones,
you still haunt these pulsing veins.
And when I think that you’re all gone,
I still feel you in the rain.

Today we start again,
because 2 am does not define us.
Because sore hearts and even sorer eyes
will not shape our hurting souls.
And for every night we spent alone
the sun still rose each morning.
So today we start again.
As reluctant,
as scared,
as weak as you may be,
today we start again.

Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.

Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.