i want to be with someone
who sees the way i look at books.
someone who notices
the way my fingers trail over covers
as though the right one will speak
straight to my soul.
i want someone who sees
the fire in my eyes
when i talk about
the things that move me.
i want to be with
the person who makes me
feel like im not sorry,
no need to apologize all the time.
someone who will hold me
so close, so tightly
that our souls cannot be separated.
thats it.
thats all i want.
just fucking love me.
Tag Archives: poetry
no title.
i whispered i miss you
and you said nothing
and its okay that you didnt.
youll miss me someday,
either because you saw me,
and loved me,
or because you didnt
and then you saw me,
and understood what you lost.
good thing.
i am tired –
it has been a long day,
one still going.
i am afraid to put you in words.
i am afraid of the ending.
inevitable,
but then endings are inevitable,
always.
to be present inside those moments,
has been refreshing,
an orgasm for the soul,
if you will.
i can see the light in the tunnel,
it’s irony, really,
seeing as how i’m just
trying to stay in the dark,
wanting you to be endless,
the kind of forever,
i don’t really believe is possible,
ill say it anyway,
you’ve been a good thing.
such a good thing.
art form.
there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.
#fromthedraftsfolder
the problem with knowing exactly what you want
is that you can’t special order love,
you can’t design it the way you want,
you can’t make anyone love you.
there’s no special drink you can chug,
no spell you can cast, no amount of magic
will make him like you, love you, want you.
and no matter what…
#fromthedraftsfolder
nostalgia tastes like coffee and donuts
at 2 am on a weekend;
it’s a warm beach and sand and a kite,
that refuses to fly vertically;
it’s a wal-mart at 3 in the morning,
and pizza and a brown fouton.
it’s the taste chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked or boxed.
nostalgia is a dangerous thing, especially,
late at night when it’s raining.
it feels like the perfect
head to chest ratio.
#fromthedraftsfolder
fleeting from spaces,
the safest of places,
rock to rock,
stumbling at times.
the best thing i ever did
was learn to live
in the moment,
then it doesn’t hurt
when your spaces
are so so safe anymore.
clean.
they see my trash piled up,
spilling its insides to the floor;
my endless stacks of paper,
teetering, toppling, towering;
they look at me and say
“you must not care –
about anything.”
the weight of their words
crush me into the wall
i’ve built for myself.
their disgust buries me,
like the floor,
and i make some excuse,
something about time
and other things,
my brain is screaming,
i’m so overwhelmed.
they’ll leave,
and i’ll clear a space
to hold myself
and rock and rock and rock
until the next person
comes to say,
“you must not care –
about anything.”
alive.
there are people who say that
you will forget words and actions,
but never the feelings.
those people are right.
i can barely remember your face,
or your touch or your laugh.
i can’t remember the depths of your eyes,
or the way you smiled.
i can’t remember the shape of you,
or the feel of you against me.
i can’t recall the moment that i decided
that i. wanted. you.
the first time i saw you?
the first time i kissed you?
the first time you touched me?
no, i can’t remember much about you at all,
except that for a moment in time,
i was alive.
i was trapped in your fire,
burning and smoldering,
and yet,
i was more alive than i had ever been.
memory.
you didn’t think i liked you,
but you just didn’t see
how I was remembering in case
you were nothing but a memory.
