I wish you would realize
what you can still become.
You are here because
the universe willed the atoms
to rearrange themselves
to become *you
and no one else.

You are a crashing orchestra,
a breath of fresh air.
You are decades upon decades upon decades
of destruction and reconstruction
rolled into a tiny voice
and a single choice.
You are much too complex
to be contained in a box.
*You are much too full
of love to share,
but you never keep any of it
for yourself.

she and i, we had our differences.
but we did agree on one thing,
how madly and consumingly in love with each other we were.
the love we had for one another was beautifully underrated.
we misused and mistook each other,
yet our love was raw and passionate.
you were my kryptonite as well as my strength.
my god, how you inspired the light inside of me.
my heart pounded like a pair of sneakers in the dryer when you touched me.
and it grinned, you made my heart grin and swell with love!
i don't care much for the way our tale ended,
only that you keep your promise to never love one like you loved me,
to start and finish each day with me on your mind;
not living in regret,
but in silent remembrance,
choosing to cherish the way i know you felt when i grazed my fingertips along your neck and kissed your dimples.
because we may have separated,
but you will always be imprinted on my heart
and i, yours.
with pieces of your heart filling the holes in mine,
you will forever be a part of me.

you are but a single spec of dust
and yet you are
every particle that my eyelashes
have ever deflected
out of some
(probably false)
sense of defense
and mistrust.

the contrast
has never broken
the ice sheet that covers
my bones and organs
so sharply,
so warmly,
so comfortably

moving mountains
has become simple
with the oxygen and hope
you generously give me
in each blink
and
velvet
touch.

dating a poet is fun,
and you'll learn things about yourself,
that you never knew.
but when you leave her,
you'll be the one who's broken.

you see,
she'll break you down
into bits and pieces-

she'll carve rhymes
into your rib cage
and
she'll make your kisses
into pentameters.

your voice becomes her rhythm,
and each color in your eye
forms a stanza.

you become pieced together
and poorly stitched,
because she's taken out
the very best parts of you
and the very worst.

she's taken you,
and cut out her favorite parts,
and she'll promise to put you back together,
but the funny thing is,
she never learned to sew.

The poet frames the void.
The critic voids the frame.