The night you told me I didn’t put stars in your eyes anymore was the night
I didn’t see any stars myself. I thought we were written in constellations but that was more hopes
of my own then fate. Yes, I was upset. But I wasn’t in love. And that’s why it didn’t hurt.
I never lied when I said there was a moment when I thought we were some type of forever.
Do you remember the time when you were out by the lake of New Hampshire with the most gorgeous sunrise,
and you told me all you could think about was how much better it’d be if I was there to see it too?
I told you it didn’t matter but when I woke up the next morning, I felt detached from where I was.
There’s a part of me that wishes I saw that sunrise too.
But that’s just how it is.
All I have is stories of “has been”s and “could’ve been”s. A collection of “almost” and never seen sunrises—
the memories carefully stacked on top of each other, organized and filed away, collecting dust.
Somewhere I still think we exist though, an eternal splotch of sunshine and mutual caring, some place where our love didn’t hurt.
Somewhere there’s a lace wedding veil and a matching tux that were actually worn. Somewhere there’s the unfinished scrapbook I put together that has more pages added to it. Somewhere there’s a collection of passports from all the road trips we should’ve taken.
Somewhere out there, we are the type of forever I intended us to be.
Somewhere, in a little cabin in New Hampshire, surrounded by evergreens and daffodils,
there’s a little girl with the same name as my favorite movie character
with your hazel eyes and my dark hair.

It could be timing or young adult naiveity and the universe may one day tear us apart but for now the universe lets me kiss you under your covers
And the universe doesn't make any ******* accidents

Since I only write love poems,
This ones about the way he said he could see me for the rest of his life and wouldn't consider it a bad one.
I don't remember what I ever say back, exactly
All I know is that it's 1:30am, I've got an 8am tomorrow and I can't sleep because I'm too busy enjoying my daydreams thinking of all the things I could enjoy with you

today i dreamed that you were ******* me
and then i fell back asleep and dreamed i was ******* myself
and this girl down the hall was saying "it was just middle school"
as everyone looked at her scars and I was thinking
wow I'm glad I thought it through and only cut myself on my legs and hips because who would want the attention of ******* wrists
and it really was just in the past,
then this girl named maria tried to relate saying oh her boyfriend accidentally cut himself when he was drunk trying to cut pizza
so the blonde one said, "that's not really the same thing"
and I continued sitting on the floor, thinking
who the **** are these people
thinking her scars seemed awfully small, does she ever feel embarrassed that they're not bigger,
thinking wow why did I think that, that's not appropriate at all
but if they were on her wrist anyway-
and self-harm isn't cutting pizza
or comparable with scar size
self-harm is just the embarrassing middle-school *******
we're stuck living with
and when you can't see the scars,
it's still in the back of your head when the girl with the big glasses says, "wow that's so sad"
and the girl says,
"no it's okay, it was all in the past."

My critical writing professor said that artists write or paint or do whatever art
on what they're obsessed with and made us talk about this poet who wrote about caves
and yeah, we agreed, caves are cool, but in the end it's still just rock.
I can't stop writing about you
and this isn't supposed to be romantic
or prove that I'm obsessed
I just think it's nice to hear poems about rock
and it's nice to love anything at all

in a weird spot today
2am staring at walls
shaky fingers
and since every poem turns into a love poem,
i want you to want to impress me still
i want to rest my hand on your cheek and close my eyes and be in my most comfortable place

just decided a problem of mine is wanting to create in every form
I want to draw and paint
and take pictures and videos
and create dances and do ******* pottery and embroider into shirts and build a garden and screen-print designs and and and
I don't have time for it all
and I'm afraid life forces people to choose one
or to narrow it down
and I will strive to create excellent things
without cutting any of it out

i was going to write a poem
but i had my headphones in for an hour without even listening to anything
and my teeth feel weird,
as well as a tendon in my ankle that i'm afraid won't get better
and i really should get sleep tonight
so maybe another time

he's the saddest story i ever read,
a walking tragedy written with spilled blood of innocence
on pages of stolen youth.

he holds forgotten chapters of words
that he never got to speak, a novel that holds his painful secrets like a requiem.
he knows death intimately as his first love
and has bruised knuckles and empty hands to show for hardships.

but still, he smiles.
even when the aroma of
perfume lingers and
the ring she never got to wear still shines.