Thousands of people read poems that are just words I want to send to you in text.
Their favorite lines are just things I want to Whisper in your ear.
Wait feels like eternity when talks of forever aren’t well received by the person that you might like to hear.
Your stubbornness is the Ying to my prideful Yang. You would have thought our egos were Twins.
Making humans into literature like ink flows through my veins.
Making redemption in the form of love poems that will forgive me for misunderstandings.
Can I be candid as I catch you off guard by sending my best regards?
This is the part where you would answer…
Emotions unique as snowflakes and it’s clear winter is here.
Calendars of consequence:
Major holidays and birthdays I hit your line just to make sure you’re alive.
You return the favor; but only sometimes.
Indebted to our emotions
If we think about it long enough we know none of that is real.
It’s just an excuse to make sure you’re alright.
Nothing more than a reason for my mind to think of your name.
Feeling close to you at a distance while I wait for the chemicals in my brain to stop reminiscing.
When you’re different you start to wonder when things will change.
Humans are made up of dark matter and shooting stars. The universe works in a mysterious ways.
Flaws make up the solar system of galaxies not so far away.
Figments of my imagination for what we could’ve been.
Non-fiction coming from my lips about the story of us.
Thoughts of forever reflecting off my glass house.
I don’t throw stones. It would shatter my gem home.
My best advice comes from my worst mistakes. So my advice is hold her close and listen to what she has to say.
We’ll probably go on for another year before these gracious sentiments and simple hellos no longer exist.
Not because the world ends, but due the fact that everything fades.
You know what they say with a whimper not a bang.
We are so young. I think we’ll be alright.
But I want the greatness of what it could’ve been. We are settling if we’re just alright.
It’s crazy to think how fast a year goes by.
If we think about anything long enough we’ll figure out none of this real.
Except for my love poems to you, they go in the category of non-fiction.