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.

To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honor.

I pray there’s a place in hell where it burns a little softer for those who couldn’t save themselves.

The potential you see in other people isn’t real. It is the projection of what you would do in their position.

You cannot change things by loving them harder.

If you were the sun, I would be Icarus.
For I knew I was bound to fall, yet still I chose to fly towards you.

The day you teach the child the name of the bird, the child will never see that bird again.

And if autumn trees have the courage to let go of their leaves, perhaps, I too, can let go of what used to be.

And how odd it is to be haunted by someone that is still alive.

Lost at sea, waves always find their way to the shore. Perhaps I will too.