I wanted to bleed you on a piece of paper.
But your words won’t come.
You left at dawn with nothing more than a promise or a warning.
And my heart bothered and unwanted since then.
I wanted to write about your kiss.
Your lips, something I never dreamed of touching my own.
I wanted to write about your warmth.
Your hands, something I never thought would touch me in places even I can’t.
But that part of me with feelings, you took away with you that morning.
I wanted to write about the thousand pieces of me and you coming together but still not quite.
Every sigh and every grip.
Every second and a half.
Sometimes its here.
Most of the time its with you.
And I could never be alone again.
Not when you’re here.
Even when you’re not.
And you took away my breath and my poetry all the same.
I could never write for another because you write it for you now, through me.
Its not about the fire.
Or the cold after.
This is not about my heart never been broken enough.
This is not the love story I tell.
This is more.
And this is less.
I wanted it to feel like anxiety.
I wanted the shake in my voice.
I wanted my heart to skip a beat.
And your kiss a minute late.
I wanted it to blew more that those midnight skies at new year’s.
I wanted it to feel like butterflies I swallowed.
I wanted it just like before.
But its not my heart.
It’s my soul.
Never welcoming a stranger.
Never wanting another.
Not after your familiarity.
Not after you.
No.
Its not really anything you said.
Or the things you did.
Its everything you never said.
And everything you never did.
That I understood.
That I needed.
What my soul wanted.
And it wants the home in you.
