They told me you proposed today,
that you were coming home
with bags packed for two,
I guess I never expected
that from you.

They said she’s gentle,
with a bird for a heart
nestled behind your ribs.

They say she’s a quiet light,
soft yet bright,
and she’s warm,
the sun buried
behind a storm.

She’ll keep the stars in the skies
and the wind in your sails,
everything pales
in comparison.

Return my heart from your chest,
it served as a shield
until yours was healed,
until she found a home
in the aftermath.

It’s battered and broken,
but its beat isn’t gone.
I’m moving on.

They told me you proposed today,
that you’re coming home to stay
with bags packed for two.

I wish only the best for you.

Read this stanza twice
before continuing on,
take a breath, take a breath,
you don’t have to leave
so soon.

Time and again
things break like these lines,
and it’s beautiful
if we call it poetry.

But no one talks
about the end of a laugh,
or the hitch in the breath
when one chokes down a sob.

Ribs keep the heart together
and souls are bound
in barbed wire for tethers,
but what’s keeping you
here with me?

This life is about saying goodbye.
The sun sets
and the moon wanes
and stars fall.

And seasons change,
and things are lost to time,
like this moment, here,
between you and me.

Read this stanza twice
before you continue on,
take a breath, take a breath,
you don’t have to leave
so soon.

Everything is beautiful
only because it ends.

I write for the ghosts,
the ones forgotten
behind time
and sunlight.

The ones that linger
in the shadows
that soften
every sharp corner.

I write for peace,
for clarity,
for the stranger
in the mirror.

I write for  the stars,
fallen from their thrones.
For the waves that worship
the light of the moon.

I write for Autumn,
because she lets go.
I write for Winter
because he whispers goodbye.

I write for Summer,
who buries people in brilliance,
for Spring who gives the sun
a reason to rise again.

I write for the tears
in the seams of one’s soul,
I write for the fractures
that paint each heart.

I know you,
the way this world knows
the feeling
of your steps.

I love you,
the way life lingers
within each first breath
and the ones that follow after.

Stay with me,
read me till morning.
I will remain with you

Mama the sun is shining
on a different shore,
the sky is tired
of being strong.
It is breaking open
like time-worn novels,
telling a story
of tears and tragedy,
of loss and fallen stars.

There are cracks in the concrete
and tears in the seams of my soul,
my ribs are not strong enough
to keep my heart together.

The ghosts in my lungs
are too heavy, mama.
I am drowning in the silence.

You might as well be a masochist
if you love someone.

And this is how I’ve loved you,
in fragments and line breaks,
in ink that ran with tears.

And this is where I’ve loved you,
in the fractures of my heart,
the torn seams of my soul.

And this is when I’ve loved you,
when the seasons fell to darkness
and time faded all things to grey.

And I love you, still,
even as my heart goes silent,
and my soul withers away.

It’s funny how slowly
people say goodbye.

It starts with something small,
pauses in conversations,
missed messages.

Grows steadily into an absense
of attention, of time.

You echo false sentiments,
wrap your arms
around someone
who is a million miles away.

You’re holding a ghost,
kissing a memory
before it fades.

And maybe I’m not tired
of falling in love,
maybe I’m just tired
of being broken
without breaking,
of being lonely
when I’m not alone.

I can hold you the way
our sheets do,
but I cannot keep
what is already lost.

Sometimes I wonder

Sometimes I wonder
if writing you
was what drove you away,
or if, perhaps,
you were a wild heart.
Ink could not keep you,
and neither, then,
should I.

Sometimes I wonder
what I should have done
to keep you in my arms,
and then I remember
that even the trees
must let go
of everything they love,
and so too should I.

Sometimes I wonder
if my heart is broken
or if it’s simply tired
of being empty.
There is an echo
in my chest,
and sometimes I wonder
if it’s a battle cry
or a funeral dirge.

Mama, this is a lot like Winter.

I hold so much 
in the hollow of my heart,
there is so much
that time must let go.

Mama, I am not dying,
I am just a sun setting
on the cusp of winter,
falling beneath the snow.

I love you, mama,
now let me go.

The doctors told me
they could inject medicine
into veins
but they never found
a way
to sew hope
on the torn seams
of my soul.

They could keep
oxygen in my lungs
but not faith.

They could keep my heart
beating against my ribs,
but not keep it filled
with the will to live.

The doctors said
they could save me
but not my spirit.

It ruined you
to hear it.

I said souls like mine
weren’t destined to stay.
They wilt like fall
and fade away.

You were an infinity
folded into a moment,
and you had poetry
melded into your veins.
whispered in your lungs,
and the sun lingered
a tad longer on your skin,
as if it, too,
loved you the way I did.

Some letters mean more than others.


You robbed me
of my smile,
but I gave it away.

You stole my breath
but I never held it
in the first place.

You broke my heart,
but I handed you
the mallet -

I could blame you
for my sorrow,

force you to bear
the burden of depression,

and let you break
beneath the guilt -

but I am too sad
to be so angry.

I just couldn’t envision
a universe without u-s in it.

But there’s an I in life
and it goes on without you.

And I will, too.

I love you, goodbye.

(via pessimisticvagina)

I have loved and lost
with each changing season,
withered under Summer’s heat
and shivered in Winter’s cold.

Spring was the kindest season
simply because it let me hide
in the wake of prettier things,
and Autumn’s wind stripped me bare
but let me rest in my solitude.

Sometimes I wonder
if I am waiting for life
to uproot me
or bury me alive.

I am quiet in my loneliness.
My heart grows heavier
with the weight of time.

Saying goodbye
is a lot like Autumn,
things fall away
before you ever learned
 to cherish them.