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I Like Your Name Because It Rhymes with the Moon

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I like your name because it rhymes with the moon. Do you even know mine? Or am I just the barista who's too young to be writing you love letters? I like your name so much, I remind people how to say it just to say it more. Did you ever tell anybody mine? Or was it just a happening—an encounter in passing—that I admired you from afar before I admired you from across the table. I remember that your birthday is August 23rd, which makes you a Virgo, a virgin woman. Mine is March 9th and I'm a Pisces, two fish in one. Your favorite flower is baby's breath, which I find to be unique. Mine is a marigold, if you ever wondered.  I know that you're sensitive. You don't like reminiscing about good times because they're gone. You tear up when you miss your family, I saw it. And sometimes, you feel like you're behind—like you're not where you should be in life. I think you hide behind self-development because you're scared to be seen vulnerable. But that's wh...
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The Point of No Return

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To the boy—the occurrence—that hounds my dreams still. You had to have known the way my skin cindered beneath yours, and still, I held you. I chased you then and I chase you now, in the form of closure. Incongruous with all things tangible, it would seem that I chase nothing.  Unwillingly, you occupy my conscience. Against fate, I can still recall the delicacy of your touch. In vain, my heart beats, and however you materialize, my breath seeks you. I move on in strata, in seams. In a literary sense, in the seams to each anthology I penned. Allegorically speaking, my healing looks more like layers of the Earth; defined, veering, and known to erode over time—unlike you, forever existing in manuscript.  How does it feel knowing I made you immortal? That while you've become eternal, I've become a paradox? That is, I'm still alive, but it doesn't feel like it. I hold liberty to my name but remain bound to yours and in a multiverse of word and theme, my pen remains loyal to ...
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I Recall A Time...

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I recall a time when we were happy, when love wasn't obligatory. It was a choice—it was my  choice—until you made me regret it. No, you made me resent it. Loving you became agony. I was impeded by the very "us" I once sought to save.  Circumstance, while a factor, could never rationalize your apathy. What do I have to do for you to see me? Not as a savior, but as a person?  Now I fear silence because memory resides in it. I fear commitment because I was committed to you. I thought I might find solace, knowing you're haunted by this, but I found only myself. I never wanted to haunt you—only to be loved.  Veritably  loved, at that. Not for my sacrifice, but for my pieces. Tell me, would you love me if I were a raging tempest? Because that's exactly what I am; you were just too busy having your life saved to know it.  I recall a time when I wrote "like the tide belongs to the moon, so do I belong to you." Back when I romanticized being your possession befo...
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