I love you like I love flowers – I’ll always have an extra one for you. I love you enough to not quit on days, some day, this shit is going to kill me. I love you seems to fill the pages – we use the sunlight and turn our mornings into apologies. Bleed into another heart, grow when it hurts – they say struggles create character – I am the fiction within our laughter. I am made to sin, aren’t we all? I love you starts with I, but ends with you. I have a journal with a million lines, it waits. Hearts like to burst and we admire the joy. To let go. Don’t you love it too?
Words tied to the soul, we have done this before. You are alwaly – a typo means it’s real. What’s the paint if we can’t love our mistakes? Do you know the person I have become? I paint us into life – you have my heart. Paint us into tomorrows? You write and write and write and write and write but you still enjoy – time likes to trick us into times, the stars linger into a space that was meant to paint and play, love for you is a seed. Art – they have everything, inside, into, outside – poetry and it flows. A river flows and it doesn’t need any meaning. Words. What are words when I scratched my smile on yours to want to be loved to love. Don’t you think so? I missed the fire.
These days sent a little quiet. The ages are stars in the night, in and out, in and out, in and out. The lovers exist, the lovers exist everywhere in the silences, one you is the one I can’t even flame, and the silence won’t even take it ever if I say loud how you find me? Am I some ghost in your arena? Shit. I love to converse. It adds to who we are. In a world that’s already construed – we might have to be resilient.
Let’s start over. I love you like how I love flowers – if it makes any sense to anyone – just you and only you. I take the sky and sink with the sky, oceans love when we have drowned. I love you into every petal – the words bloom us into something new. We destroy ourselves just to be ourselves again. Fine, that isn’t a shame. To be truly who you are, you must find those pieces.
The leaves are lost. The forest is on fire… Use this smile to cue that depression. We made the hours feel like seconds. I have never had you, but you are still beautiful. One day, the clouds will stop being so damn grey. We never got to make amends. We never got to be us. Poetry likes to feel. I know that being this numb will release some destruction. I know. Trying is still ok, right? I have turned most of late poems into pieces of raw paper, each word a slight tear. It’s good to feel something. I can’t sleep this away. I can’t run from what has been presented to me. Emotions are inconvenient. I have been writing poetry for far too long.
Let’s start over again. This doesn’t need to make sense to anyone except for you. I love you like how I love flowers – I’ll always write an extra poem for you. I love you like how I love the color red – blood and wine pressed into my veins. I love you is painful, but you are a reminder that it isn’t hard to love me. I respect that you make these sad days into a big air metaphor. Fold my hearts into original art. Use my poetry. The ending isn’t sweet, but you still believe in my tomorrow. I love you. This is for you. ♥