I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.

I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.

A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.

I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.

I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.

I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.

I am living by the ocean,
waiting for you to wash up with the waves.
Hours stretch and yawn like a tabby cat
lazily flicking its tail to the drum of a
grandfather clock.

Has time forgotten me?
Has it left me abandoned?

Crossing days off the calendar seems almost
inconsequential.
But, the moon still rises and sets
tending to the tides like a mother.

Missing you comes in waves,
The stillness of a pond crescendoing
to crash against the shore.

I would of written you a love song.
I want you to know that if I could of strung together L-O-V-E into a comprehensible phrase then I would of written you a love song.
I never could of opened my mouth to sing it for I have no flow… But I would of written it anyway.
I would of written it for you.
I want you to know that if I could of strung together any sentence, any set of words that could explain the way I feel then I would of written you a love song.
Perhaps it would never have been angry or passionate or inspired you to feel anything.
There is a very high chance that it would of never made me feel the way that love songs are generally meant to.
But I would of written it anyway.
I want you to know that I hope that someday someone writes you a love song, and it is not about awkward first kisses on braces or teenage boys with no sense.
I hope that someone writes you a love song and that someone is the someone that I could never be.
The someone you would of never been for me.
Because you can love your best friend in a million ways and one.
But you cannot write a love song for somewhere your love does not belong.
But I want you to know, I would of written you a love song if I knew how, if I could of felt that way then I would of chosen you.
I would of written you a love song.
I would of written it about long brown hair that never changes and blue eyes that stand out like the sea,
I wish I could of written you a love song but you don’t belong to me.
If I could of rearranged the world and chosen each tiny magnificent part then there is not a fragment of you that I would change,
If I could of written you a love song then I would of told you that there’s not a part of you that I would rearrange.
And if I could of…
If I would of…
Written you a love song then it would of been beautiful.
It would of been beautifully strange.
It would of been a hundred things that I’ll never truly know.
Because I would of written you a love song, but I don’t know how.
I hope someone writes you words that bring tears to your eyes.
I hope someone writes you a song and they open their mouth to sing and that melody is sweet.
I think that to anyone else this would all seem quite strange but you will understand these words for everything they mean.
I would of written you a love song.
Instead I wrote you this, because there are a thousand lifetimes and in none of them do we ever make it to a third kiss.

It's never the same
But there's sort of an order
We leave as we came
Cross the same borders

And nobody knows
But they'll do what befits  
And that's how it goes
And we all go with it

Man's greed is His noose
It entangles His heart
And when He keeps pulling
It pulls Him apart

I wish love destroyed you,
But it doesn't do you that courtesy,
It wounds and maimes you,
And it leaves you alive,
It doesn't do you the justice of a mercy killing,
We bleed again and again,
The scars come and never leave,
Forever altered by all of the moments,
Love isn't poetic,
Love is the cache 22 that reminds us that even if you're in heaven right now,
The devil used to also be god's favorite angel,
And hell isn't so far away after all.