And I wish you were here
On this grey, windy day

I can almost feel
Your head on my chest
As we lie intertwined
Between tangled sheets

And together we watch
As the rain comes rolling in

I play with your hair
Splayed across your back
And plant silent kisses
Upon your brow

And together we watch
As lightning strikes the sea

We stay still
Our lives put on hold
Our hearts beating as one
On this melancholic day

And with your eyes locked on mine
We listen
To the distant rumbling of thunder

Oh how I wish you were here.

Well beneath my sarcasm
My hatred for the world

There is a different story waiting
Waiting to be told

For I am made of poetry
Of sunsets
And the moon

Of summer rain
And chocolate smell
And nights that end too soon

It's hidden well
It's out of sight
It's on you to find the key

For my fragile little world,
My dear,
Is not for everyone, you see?

why do I feel the most alive when the world is asleep?
most real when people's minds are in dreams?
most heard when no one is listening?

same as the moon
I burn brightest
in the darkness

a candle of the living

For every response left unread.
For every thought trapped in my head.
For the way you make me feel.
Decrypt if it's fake or if it's real.

It's hard to explain a feeling you don't quite know yourself.

Understanding your own mind can be tricky sometimes.

We don't quite know each other yet, despite that fact.

I still feel comfortable to talk to you.

 it feels like we have already had a wonderful first date, a romantic second, and our third wasn't the best but we are both don't care because we are spending it together.

 It makes me nervous, not knowing if you imagine the same thing.

That's why I panic when I talk to you, not knowing if the thing I just said was good enough.

so I say something new before you can type back, and believing that isn't good enough so I repeat the cycle.

Becoming stuck in a whirlpool of my own anxiety and overthinking, just because I don't want to miss my chance at that bad third date.

I don't want to miss the chance to stare at you, on a night not going as planned, but still being able to smile when I look at you.

I'm sorry I'm not good at talking, but I promise you would enjoy my rambling and awkwardness if you gave it a shot.

Beauty, i've realized, is not confined to one singular moment
Nor one singular place.
Not one precious moment in time but perhaps a web of them.
It's intrinsic to nature.
Confounded through and possibly limited by the dullness of people.
We need too much.
We desire emptily.
We set definitions leaving little space for the outlier.
But beauty, in its purest form, is the outlier--a great composition of them.
For what we set our eyes forth to blatantly, routinely, and  mundanely is often the most beautiful, masked by our innate desire for novelty.