For us, the past is our only reality.

I met my younger self today,
I told him the dream is dead.
He asked which one, I laughed -
He left.

She’s the love letter that takes a lifetime to write.

I’ll brew you a cup of coffee, and you always try to steal a kiss in between.

I will be the poet,
and you will be the poetry.

Win as many hearts as you can,
for breaking hearts is no art.

A man can endure anything,
except the lack of meaning.

It’s not a metaphor, this ache.

In ruins, let hope ignite,
a flicker of madness, a beacon of light.
For in every heart, a desire to survive.

Learn to let go of what
does not ask to be held.

She lives in the poetry she cannot write.

You laughed like a metaphor I’ve been trying to write down for years.

I am yours.
Don’t give myself back to me.

For me you were the measure of all things.

And one day, you’ll thank the endings for leading you to better beginnings.

Perhaps my only real expertise, my only talent, is to endure beyond the endurable.

As soon as I think I’m healing, grief finds me and rips open the wound again.

What is done in love, is done well.

My body is still ablaze with the memories of you.

If love does not ruin you at least once,
then you loved like a coward.

I remember one August in particular,
when everything was sweet and slow and you looked at me like I was something the sun left behind on purpose.