Magic In My Boness

When I read your poetry, I find myself crying, wishing those words were meant for me. I wish I were never real—only fictitious enough to be carefully wrapped in your chosen words, to become art within your thoughts. If imagination is the only place where I can be with you, then so be it. Let me exist there, even if only temporarily. Let me believe that you still love me in one or many of your musings. If that is how we are meant to be— you as the words, and me as your thought— then I want my entire existence to become a poetry I would never have to cry for.

I carry the scent of your abandonment—never meant to be there forever, yet it lingers, aching to be called back.

I am in a state of exploding into everything unseen—atoms, molecules, air—just so I can exist around you.

She is the summer warmth my wintered skin yearned for—the comfort of loving her, endlessly, in every season.

I love from the most deserted places of my heart, from the hinges of every turn it has ever taken. It is beautiful because it is true, but terrifying because it is bad—really bad. So bad that I would love you even when my hair turns white and my bones ache.

The urge to just burst out laughing into millions of molecules for absolutely no reason and then happily disappear, is so real.

The ones who held your heart without ever holding you, not in your sight long enough to even be a memory, but just in those random eye glances only to be a muse — The one that would stay and linger in your eyes, so you could word them perfectly and call them poetry.