poetry?

I try to imagine my perfect partner, and all I see is you.

I try to imagine what you’ll say the next time I call, but all I see is your empty face.

I,

What do the girls wear in Berlin? What do they wear in New York?

If you tell me what they wear, maybe I could dress like them and convince the both of us that I belong at your side.

You love seeing the whole world in its glory - I can count the times I’ve left the state on one hand.

If I could look, even act the part, would you fly me out to be with you? Would you finally realize that there’s more to my brain?

I’ve loved you from a distance for three years now, going no further than just a night in your bed after a bottle of wine.

I’d scream my affections from the top of all of New York’s skyscrapers if it meant you’d see me as more than my warm hands.

Best regards,

You push and you pull on my celestial body, determining my weather, my tides, my orbit.

I feel as though we came hurtling at each other from the depths of outer space, crashing into each other. We’ve created something so magnificent yet so destructive that I cannot tear my eyes away from it.

How could I have done this to myself? Why have I made myself to be your moon, endlessly circling you and your grace?

I hope to one day find myself drifting from the grip you have on me, but my dreams are all in vain.

a beautiful girl of eighteen plays the french horn in my school’s marching band.

at fourteen, i watch her as she laughs with her friends, and she catches my eye as she turns her head to flip her hair over her shoulder.

i hold my flute to my chest and look away, feeling like i’ve stared for too long, and worried i’ve done something wrong.

i tell myself that i didn’t notice when she wasn’t in class on tuesday. that i didn’t notice she had gotten bangs. that she had dyed her hair pink. that i felt like my heart was swollen when she walked across that stage when she graduated, as i watched her from the pit below the floor that our band played from.

now, at an age just older than she was, i see her posts on instagram and i still stare at her face for just a little bit too long.

i tell myself, this time, that i just like to see my friend happy. or that her fashion inspires me. that i like her new haircut.

but our friendship doesn’t extend past comment sections. i’ve never dressed like her or complimented her hair.

that version of myself at fourteen shakes her head, reminding me of how jealous i would get seeing her with a boyfriend.

can art only flow from my chest while my mind is in turmoil? is art only born out of sadness?

i feel as though i’m caught in a rut, like my tires are spinning but i’m unmoving

the world’s freeway is spinning past me, and all i can do it slam the gas while praying for change

we aren’t touching, but the comfort of our stillness is sweet enough

his breaths go out as mine go in, and his snores harmonize with mine

while we sleep he’ll subconsciously reach toward my hand

when the taste of smoke and cherries

hangs on your tongue

while i kiss you in the cold air

and when you look as beautiful as you do

when the peace of sleep

smooths your face, and calms your heart

a stranger’s smile on the sidewalk, a like on a post, the promise of a favor, anything can get my mind racing with a daydream

maybe it’s the lack of excitement in my life, or more so the gaping hole that only romance could fill that inspires my imagination

i cant help it - the thought of a shared coffee, a quiet moment on a winter night, slow dancing in pajamas, early mornings in each other’s arms

all of it envelops me, and locks me into a world that cant be reached by physical means, a world that will never grace me