I don’t write poetry. I reiterate conversations.

I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.

But could words bethe end of me?

between your armsit was to dieto feel your warmththe bliss of your heartit was my life

a darkened huewith lips like cherrieseyes of lightningand that’s the momenti knew we were on fire

The raindrops tapped your windows like my lips tapped your back.

running with sharp knivesnever got me so farbut running with youseemed lovely

drafts on your skinwords of your necki’m spinning in heavencaressing in hellwe’re dancing as ifwe're the only oneshere

Wrote you a poem or two. You didn’t enjoy them, but I did for you.