In fall I met a boy who had blue eyes and dark hair
and he towered over me thin and strong

and he had wheels for feet but wasn’t a rolling stone
no, that was always me

he told me he loved me with the lights on

and we became helplessly entangled in each other’s limbs
like we were turning into the jungle itself
until it got colder and we were ripped apart
-
in winter I met a girl who knocked the wind out of me
and my lungs have never quite been the same

she would read me poetry as we laid in her silk sheets naked
drinking coffee and she would light my cigarettes

and she taught me how to jump in head first
and how to be charm boys
and how to love *****
and more importantly,
her
-
in spring everything so tightly wound began to come undone
and love became more complicated

and in the end I had to choose whom I loved more
and even now I still question the faulty loyalties I had

and I catch myself driving by both of their houses
feeling unable to control my lungs
or my razor sharp memories
-
in summer the boy with the blue eyes who was my moon
started loving a little girl and we haven’t talked since

and while I waned he waxed
and I hope to never see him again

and the girl who was my rising and setting sun
kissed me for the last time in a smoke filled room

and I lent her my shoes and shirt
and I still think about her every day
-
It's been over a year
and I am still unable to allow these two people out of my head

like a guilty conscience that will never let you rest
and all I can think is

imissyouimissyouimissyou

like it is engraved in my heartbeat

you cut open my core and threw my insides at the walls
with all of your indecencies and heedless galaxies
that i'd try to explore, but you kept closed, and gravity;
my feet on the ground as they should be,
as musicians and stupid poets like me
dedicate promises we're positive don't change how you love.

and i figure you to be my supernova.

this abominable disaster you've caused transformed me into
the ink blots splattered and messy and unconstitutional cracks
in the ceiling that we think to fix but never quite have enough spackle.
and i'm **** at sewing, but you force me to stitch myself back
together for days and weeks until i said,
"i want you out of my life"
even though we both knew i was lying and desperate to feel
something because ****** romantics like me
want hermia and lysander,
not demetrius and helena.

and we can't think without the noise of each other and the
constant loose ends that fray,
and time and time again imissyouimissyouimissyou.

and my silence, your silence is the loudest heartbreak i know,
and beethoven never had these problems because he could feel
and he knew that fire and hearts do not mix,
and neither should deceit,
but pretty boy you tore out my heart with burning hands and kept
it in your back pocket with all the others,
and i never said otherwise because at least i was something to you
even if our hearts beat to different drums,
and explosions,
and cracked ribs that you'd like to take because my heart wasn't enough and you needed pieces of me to make yourself feel whole.

and i wish i was a little more selfish because i'm stuck with a
carcass of my old self and the buzzards don't care of the
shell i am now; made up of frozen sno cones, and your eyes.