"You set on me, but you are not the sun."* - Brand New, Not the Sun

I wish I could turn everything into a poetic statement.  I wish, instead of saying, “You touched my hair,” I could replace it with how it felt as though the world would crumble if you ever stopped touching me, how every single letter in your vocabulary always had me on the edge of my seat, hoping that they could form into words that said something along the lines of you need me like the sun needs the moon in the sky and the elephant never forgets those types of things.  

I wish I was articulate enough to explain in a way that wasn’t too emotional how I held my breath waiting for your calls until my lips turned blue and I grew a little fuzzy around the edges.  How each time my phone rang with you on the other line, I could finally take in that fresh air and smell you even though you weren’t there.  How many lonely nights I sat with that bright light in my eyes, looking at every incoming message with malice as not one of them had your name on it.

Even if I could form all of this into a lovely form of poetry, free flowing and wild, I would never be able to tell you how much I thought of you before you disappeared like the sun right after it set and how now I sometimes feel like my life is filled with unbearable nights with no hope for the morning rise.

I still miss you sometimes.

Conflagration

Inferno.
Firestorm.
This is what I feel
in my heart of hearts.
It burns
and consumes
and turns me to ash and then,

like a wave,
my emotions
break and beach
and wash over you
and drown you.

Push and pull- these are the
the tides of my emotions,
and the moon is the cause,
and I moon over you and it pushes and pulls the waters on the shores of
my pathetic, insignificant
little soul.