my throat is a
net filled with
butterfly wings
and wooden  
handles.

I've been crying since the day
your tongue turned into
a stage of dancing lies

my hair pulled back
to hide the smell of
dead thoughts of us

of how leaves look prettier
when they're dead in autumn
of how I would be prettier
if  I were dead too

the way your fingers lit in passion
whenever we touched
the way your fingertips sparked the fire
of cigarettes smoked to the bone

I remember the smell of your hands
danger with a glimpse of loneliness

I liked it
I loved it

The day your tried to bottle up
all the love I had for you
and the glass didn't resist

the day I stole your gun
to make you say you loved me
the way you took it from me

the way I understood you'd never catch
the stockholm syndrome from me

I'm sorry
I'm so sorry.

A dozen is not needed,
nor six.
One is what I seek,
her lovely petals,
so fragrant.

It's hard to write something with emotion,
when most of it was taken by the one you loved most.

I have my own little theory on dreams,
And maybe I'm silly,
And maybe these words won't come out right..
But I'll try to explain.

I think we dream of other people for a reason.
And I believe every time I think of you before I go to sleep,
Before I shut my eyes.
I think you think about me for a split second.
And in that split second,
Of both our pondering thoughts,
That means I'll wake up to visions of you dancing around in my head.

Common ground.
That's what creates dreams.
We need to both be thinking of each other at the same time.
Only for a short time.
But it's truly magical.
Truly something worth waiting for.

So darling.
Stop thinking about me.
When I'm thinking about you.
Because waking from this slumber is hard to do when my brain is telling me to reach out and touch your body next to mine.
But in reality,
You're just a dream.

I wish you would have left a little part of yourself here.
Something to remind me you actually happened.
That you weren't just a beautiful daydream.
I wish you could have stayed.