i wish i could go back
and savor you;
the sunshine on your face,
as if it were pages of a story,
and the feeling of warmth
like the sun on my back
as i read you like
the comic book you were,
i wish i could start over
so then i could feel
this all
again.

I know we’ve never been good at this
Telling each other how we really feel
Because in our hearts we know
That we both know the answer to that question
I can tell when something is wrong before you even set foot in the room
And I know you’re probably too scared to admit that
But know that I would do anything for you
And I know you would do anything for me
But what can we do
When we’re miles apart
And the letters on these pages won’t change that

Leave the window open
Let wind sneak in
As it numbs my skin like a sharp pin
Let it flow to the papers
As they rustle around
I want it here flipping pages
Of letters from you I found
Let it whisper all the words
And read me all the passages
Let the window open
Let it flip the pages
And lift me off the ground

I'm up to 35.
35 despaired pages, each turned with a painfully waning chance of happiness.
I weep for this diary
The crisp-white pages are darker than dark, tattooed with pain
Written in ink, but meant in blood.
(I'm starting to wonder if I have any left in my veins)

How can I write
Someone so real
Into fiction?
I won't banish you into
Just words
Just screens
Just ink
Because you're more than a just
You're more than I thought.
You're real and I want to keep you that way.

You weave your stories like the night,
stringing the moon with the stars;
the finest of pristine pearls,
threaded by twilight.

Weaving the finest Varanasi silk
with life as your celestial loom;
laying down gold- and silver-threaded brocade,
dormant gardens burst in bloom.

Your pen is the philosopher’s stone
turning lead hearts into gold;
manipulating structure in stunning stanzas,
inscribing on hearts in italics and bold.

Nodding in acquiescence
the sages of the ages,
will then add your magnum opus
to their papyraceous pages.

My thoughts are weary travelers
Waiting for the safe haven
Of the blank pages
Where ink rejuvenates them to life
As memoirs for other travelers

blank pages
you fill with empty words.
it would be nice to see those lines
those curves.
but words do not seem to amuse you.
they escape and abuse you.
so those pages that remain blank
will surely stay without ink.
for to get your book
would be an impossible thing.