there are roses,
tulips, daisies,
and carnations forming
a garden between my ribs,
centrically swirling and
bending to take up every space.

and it looks beautiful but
within i cannot breath due
to the suffocation and sweet
poison of the memories
each flower you gave me
bears.

i have flowers in my veins.
many have them tattooed,
others just imagine the blue lines
as forget-me-not roots.

i have flowers in
my veins but i have
the sweet aroma
coursing in my bloodstream.
the petals disguise themselves as white
cells. the roots are deep within my
heart.

i have flowers in my veins.
and you planted them there.

the skin on my wrists tingle from the shadow of your fingertips tracing. you follow the curves and indentions of flesh, hesitantly running the pad of your thumb across the stars inked onto my skin, until you finally look up to met my eyes.
i see so many galaxies spinning, stories of untold hurt, pain, redemption, change. i begin to wonder if you can read my soul like i can yours.
my mind drifts to the idea of orion, sitting in the sky, watching over you at night, knowing you are safe. i exhale -

you smile.

because of you
i believed love was attainable,
and that i could be swept away.

but now i know it is as
realistic as that infernal glass slipper,

because everything,
like glass,
will *break.

duct taped my mouth, open eyes, can you hear me speak without it?

D- do not forget; i will always
R - remember when you layed me down to sleep
E- every time the dark hours came, and you promised me
M - moments of joy to come during the night.

if i could use
the stars to show my
love for you,
the entire night sky
would not be vast enough
of a canvas.

i once read
where someone said

'we run from rain
but sit in tubs filled with
water.'

and since that moment,
on days where teardrops
fall from the sky,
i have not skipped out
on letting them kiss my skin
and melt into my hair

because i want to feel
everything i can in this mundane
life before -

now you are just a ghost, using my name as a punchline.

you told me
as i laid in bed,
of our soon to be:

of the garden we
shall call our own,

the morning walks to
bring us home,

and the days where movie midnights
cause laughter to fill the rooms

would make us whole.

this was what any soul yearned for,
this was what was suppose to be..

yet i am shaking with fear,
weak on my knees.

i was not scared of my future,
until you stapled yourself into
my soon to be.

when will you tell me why?

the leaves
are changing and
my hands are bleeding
from trying to paint them
but i can't catch the beauty
and i think that's a living
metaphor for how much
i miss you.

run, run
     run, run
            run, run
                 run, run,
                           far
                              far
                           ­      away

                                     because we
                                          both know
                             here, we
                       do not
                 belong,
                      and maybe
                            that is why
                      when you and i
                look at the
                           trees we
                                   see lyrics
                     rather than
                                     l
                                        e
                     ­                     a
                                          ­   v
                                                 e
                                                     s
                                                        .
     ­                                                     .

another day has passed,
and i still have your photograph.

its beginning to become soft, even though its made from card stock.

its been 9 weeks.
i still miss who i knew.
now you are a stranger, and it rips my soul that if i passed you,
i'd have no idea what to say.

do you remember the time
you said,
"darling, come with me"
and the world melted away.

when your hand met my own
the sky became streaked
with a aurora  of
lilac petals and violet rivers.

how did i ever believe the
sky was beautiful before i
looked at it through this
kaleidoscope formed by
your fingers around mine?

she would write words
upon her hand on a whim,

words like
burn, drown, essence, crescent,
jingle, irony, scheme,
and i did not understand why.

when she would get
frustrated, and that line
would come between her brow,
she would begin to touch her face,
as she always did

and the ink would smudge
and smear and color her cheeks,
eyes, nose, a dark, deep, blue

and i still did not understand why,
until one time i asked her,
"why do you write on yourself?"

and she replied,
pen in hand,
"i wish to be a poem."

.

i forgot what it felt like
for you to lean over me,
covering my frail body from
the cold world.

i can't explain this,
because for every moment i
hate your presence,
there is another to
counter how i miss your smile.

we are not,
yet we used to be,
and i have fallen
in love with the sinful
glances we steal at each other,
the unspoken language we recite
with our bodies' every time you and
i are near.

the adultery of the century,
that will never be clear.

for you..

a brush of your hand,
             meant -
i am glad i have you.

a hug with your head to the crook my neck,
             meant -
you are mine

a kiss before you drove away,
             meant -
i am coming back.

a hand on my cheek,
             meant -
i love you, why dont you see that?

for me...*

"i am scared to be alone,"
             meant -
i need to know you wont leave.

"i cant do this,"
             meant -
i do not want to hurt you.

"maybe one day,"
             meant -
i do not see you staying that long.*

"i prefer looking someone in the eye,"
             meant -
*i see what you mean with every action, but you refuse to
  see what i am saying. and that is why we never worked,
  because we both know you were to scared, and had only brushed the surface..."

it's stuffy in here,
with all these tainted promises
and memories that have been stained.
for a while, i wanted to keep it this way,
but now, looking in this room of mine,
i realize i would much rather have
the fresh air fill my cluttered chest
and to breath in the moments to come.
so, open all the windows in this room of mine;
yes, this will do nicely.

this
is not
a poem.

this
is not
a poem.

no
    matter
  what i say    you
  will believe what
                                         you want.

    please listen to me.

this
is not
a poem.

please listen to me.

this
is not
a poem.

                   pl
                       ease...

every star, blade of grass,
every cloud and flower we pass,
some are not noticed,
not even cared for,
but still needed, i'm sure.