I want to go back to the very point,
where you lost everything you had.
Where it all lay broken and strewn 
in front of your weary eyes.
The point where you were beyond saving.
The point where you stopped caring.
The point where nothing you did
could keep it all from crumbling.

I want to sit next to you.
I want to feel your shaking hands.
And without words,
I want to tell you
that it will all be okay.

I wonder what it takes
to be as patient as the sea—
Always going, then returning,
missing land so desperately—

Your thoughts they crash and waver,
all at once, or not at all.
Their chaos is so peaceful,
like your eyes, if I recall.

I still feel your hand brush mine,
with every gentle breeze.
And your scent it hovers here,
like a beautiful disease.

A simple little smile, oh
how my heart fluttered with ease.
The thrill inside your voice,
as you led me through the trees.

These now live inside my pen,
all of what we used to be.
I’m scared to know your thoughts,
what if there’s no more about me?

Our fingers brushed so gently,
I still remember how you’d grin.
You said my hands felt warm,
but I felt so much more than skin.

There’s so much collapsing in me,
that I’m sure I’ll never tell—
Please don’t fret, you’ll never know,
because I hide it all so well—

If I told you I was scared,
then would you still come with me?
I’ll keep you close as my own skin,
as we sink into the sea.

You say you’ve emptied out the [love]
and now there’s none left in your bones—
If that’s the case, why are they warm?
And why do they still feel like home?

I had 
to listen
so
carefully,
to hear
the quiet
words
coming
from your
eyes.

You say I’ve come unglued,
losing one piece then another,
but to fall apart you had to of,
at some point, been together.

My apathy is now unraveled,
though it started with a thread.
I said I wouldn’t let it **** me,
but I had already been dead.

And now these fibers are all knotted,
twisted tightly roundabout
all the windows and the doorways,
where the love was once let out.