Opinions are like the wind
               Always changing direction.
              
Subjective on different breathes.
         Everyone slightly
                    different with each breeze.

i broke the promise i made to myself
i turned myself into a type of art
but not the good kind,  you see
i'm a work dripping with ink
and i can't cover up the mistakes
because i used a red sharpie to color

It has always been about definitions. You can try and
search basically anything now and it will always prove that
meanings exist already. As if it had to always be generic for
everyone. Something that all should understand and observe.

You asked me what love is. I didn't know what to say,
mainly because there were a lot of things already made up
about this word that could only ever go as far as being both a
common thing and something rare. And that was when it hit me;
love is a subjective thing, just like how everything should be. I
know that there are already these given definitions, meanings,
and information but somehow, it always goes down to perspective.
It's always about what you see that others may not, and feel what
others don't. It's about how you see it and how you feel it.
You tried asking it again. That was when I finally knew.
Love is talking at three in the morning, or texting at three p.m.
Love is being in someone's arms closely, just there to remember
how their scent smells like, or how their breath feels, or how
their heart beats, or how their hands intertwined with yours make
you feel the safest that you are. Love is being with someone you
see as perfect—I know perfect is subjective, and that was
why you were my kind of perfect, because you were just the right
touch of my favored insanity—and being happy with the thought
of it. Love is asking someone if they are okay, or if they got home
safely, or if there is something bothering them. Love is being able
to care for someone without forgetting to care for yourself. But
most of all, Love is someone you can call home.

And so when you asked what love was for me, I could
only muster the word you.

we live in the morning between smoking rooms
hanging underneath blankets
 soaked in glue

   we always climb that ladder           
       towards a higher value
     or maybe a better purpose

     sometimes we will laugh along
      and break down in the same week                    
        flashing everyone cracks hiding
           in private places

we've told you before
i'll say it again                  
the
  sun
    will
      not
      guide
         you.

Lush draped the walls
Gold freckles cheek to collar
I shook the dust from my lips
And lost hours

I left kisses on dead children
Old as the houses
I grew friends in the field out back
Under dead forests

Guilt
Shattered glass
They’ll cease existing
When I pass

Some hurts feel too often
Like old love

I looked at you
The way an artist
Would look at a naked woman.
Your bottom lip was designed
For kissing,
Your hands for crafting,
And there was a picture in every moment
I have shared with you.

I saw that we fit together
So very perfectly,
But the subjective camera
Was only me.


--Eleanor