Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.

and I swear
I could tear my rib cage to shreds
if it meant I'd finally feel something again
*(nothing's really felt like anything
since us)

somedays he is a snowflake,
cold
and small
and pretty
and solitary.
others, he is a sunset,
vibrant
and warm
and beautiful
and unique.
but day in and day out,
whether sunset or snowflake,
he is nothing but himself,
handsome
and special
and mine.

you shine so bright
that the weeds in my chest
grew towards you
and bloomed
into flowers
that couldn't be called
anything other than
love

I don't know much,
but I can tell you what "whole" looks like.
I've seen it stumble forward
with weary eyes and tired hands.
Come close,
I will hand you a mirror
and tell you to look carefully.
Can you not hear the galaxies
beneath your skin?
They paint in whispers
that even oceans cannot grasp.
I know it took a hurricane and two floods,
but there is soil in your ribcage;
your scars told me so.
Don't mind them though,
they're just reminders
that you love harder than anyone else.
I know you might feel hollow,
but there is a reason your heart
has lofted ceilings.
Never forget how you fought
for all that space.
Look carefully.
These gray skies inside your lungs
are simply a canvas,
and you rain so beautifully.
Oh darling,
you rain so beautifully.

i hope you walk
back into my life
and find all the dog
eared pages in that
book full of bukowski
poems, I only bought
it because I could imagine
it on your shelf.  I have to
remind myself that most
of what I liked, I liked way
before you but your water
brought it to the surface and I
realize I am so much more
like a snake than I think,
shedding skins that
belonged to you.

I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.