your eyes; your heart
both always the colour of clouds.
which now are grey, orange and (smothering) surrounding me
and
I'm
so
scared-
of insulting your beauty with terribly formed metaphors.
i found instructions on how to write poetry.
"begin with your title"
You were always my title.
I began with you and words flowed afterwards,
Pencil smudged and sewn to my eyelids.
I always
let you drift away
with my dreams.
Falling in love is the worst thing that can happen to a poet,
It eats away my words.
I have clear memories of each of our conversations
and even while you're talking about serial killers at 5am
You're edging into my fingertips urging me to spill onto paper.
these words are never supposed to be about you
but they are never any less than that.
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