I once new a boy
Who had eyes like summer.

They were the seductive blue
Of the condemning ocean.

His laugh was the sound
Of safety and warmth
Security and innocence.

His heart was a waterfall
That gave away understanding
And love.

And this boy,
With the Summer eyes
And waterfall core

Met a girl.

Who he thought,
Had eyes like bliss
And a core filled with optimism.

But she was an illusion.
Her picturesque smile
Was only a trick of the mind.

And her core
Was not filled with optimism,
But with the wings of broken butterflies,
And fragments of lost dreams.

And that fall, when he told her he loved her
She told him she loved him too
When in reality,
She had no form of any
Love to give

But even her,
The soul stolen girl
With eyes like a dying fire
Could not bear
To turn his summer eyes
Into those of winter

i used to hate sundays,
but sometimes you hold
my hands in the pews
at church and i think that
i've been saved in more
ways than one

today a friend of mine told me that in china
they only say i love you when they really mean it;
she talked about it like it was a loaded gun,
like telling somebody i love you also meant
i'd **** for you, i'd die for you, i'd live for you.

i don't know how to be brave enough to say that
straight, but if i could, i would fly you across the globe
to help you understand.

i am a doll
i want to be adored
i am a flower bud
i want to open up
i am a glittering star
i want to be watched
i am a glass of sweet tea
i want to be savored
i am a potential poem
i want to be written

-kk

I have known the inexplicable wonders of water, still and royal,
as it swallows you whole,
the daylight an hour glass on its side /
I have felt the blades of bright satin grass
tickle the back of my neck, whispering,
as the heat of the sun simmers seductively on my skin /
I have seen the curious quirk of your mouth,
eyes ablaze with June, coloring your face fair,
all the questions of tomorrow sinking into today /
I have thought of all the distance,
all of the places lacking my footprints, and my eyes gently close,
my exhale a mere hurricane in my throat /
I have yearned for perfection as silently as I could,
if perfection even exists at all,
and I blur black, disappointed, into the timid hush of summer /
I have done all of these things,
or maybe have done none at all,
because the truth is that one never truly knows
what goes on when the air is warm and tempting -
we’re all too busy finally breathing