You’re the story I tell when the wind asks about my love for sunsets, the punctuation I erase when our reflections sink into the shore. How does every sign we construct explain how some people are meant to fall in love, but aren’t meant to be together? How do new constellations form every time I whisper your name, but the night still drinks the caffeine we left at our feet?

I just wanted to be the owner of the galaxies dripping from your eyes, the piece you could live without when our hands are grasping for the leaves falling short of a title we’re still rearranging. The less we talk, the more words mean. The less we smile, the more I find your laughter in every six-string song.

On my best days, I’m just a breath away from you, but sometimes, I just need a little help getting out of my head. Or when I need to get off the bed, some words push us towards insanity–if you were ever mad at me, would you speak your thoughts? If you ever fell in love with me, would you tell me? If you wanted to know something unusual–I’ve got you. I enjoy the oddness of questions. Like how it sends us on a quest for the truthful answers midway.

I don’t like acronyms because the shortness of letters can never compare to the shortness in my breathing when it comes to the lines of... Oh my god, you’re beautiful tonight. The less we smile, the more I find your atmosphere most needed–some laughter controls the bleeding, some lovers control the weather, and some nights I need both. Some nights I seem to choke on my regrets; it’s never dinnertime when you’ve got so much on your mind.

It’s never writing if you’ve done nothing right. You’re always wrong if you start crying in the middle of a song that triggered certain feelings that you shouldn’t be having. You’re always spacing out whenever the commas start to show how many mistakes you’ve made, how many mistakes it took for you to finally get it, how many apologies it took for you to be forgiven, how many I love you’s were needed for someone to feel like you loved them and not just for the sake of not being alone,
how many nights you had to spend living in a dead memory of won’t you stay with me for another hour, how many oceans you had to cry before you realized people sink with you every time you damage them, how many volcanoes you became because stress makes smoking this much easier, how many pills you had to take to forget a name, how many nights you stayed high because shower thoughts brought you back to the razors,
how many mornings you spent fucked up because of one fuck up, how many years you’ll toss away to find yourself, how many weeks it’ll take to rewire your brain after a breakup, how many days it’ll take to unfeel everything, how many hours it’ll take to unlove a feeling, how many seconds it’ll take to get it right, how many commas you’ll keep count off to not lose yourself tonight, and how many times you’ll leave yourself in the palms of others instead of your own.

If I’m ever on my last dollar, if I’m ever in my last heartbeat, if I’m ever at the end of the line, if I ever forget about you, if I never loved you, if I ever destroyed myself to recreate myself, if I ever feel good enough to get over this depression, if I ever stop and stare into the middle of nowhere, and if I never return to who I used to be–remember that this life will cut like a very thin knife into your ribs in search for another comma for another run-on sentence that should not have happened because you always loved to make mistakes without a proper ending or a period to your era of impressional impressions to impress no one in particular you can have all of my mistakes you can have all of my errors you can have all of this red ink to scribble all over this poem you can have my life and call it death to the last day when we’ll never meet again.