i’m obsessed with the melting feel it brings

i wrote hollow poetry and never noticed the echo;

but watching you hang my moon, hang my stars,

hang my world, hang my heart; as if we’re a gallery

that’ll never be shown, instead kept like memories

in our souls? darling, when you become a part of me,

there’s no such thing as breathing. & there’s no more

capitalizing, it’s not just ‘i’ anymore,

it’s ‘us’ ,

it’s ‘you and me’

it’s ‘we’

& somehow through that,

we became our own kind

of poetry.

tell me, how are we writers

if we can’t ever find the words we need?

how can we write a piece unexpectedly at midnight; yet,

when there’s a question mark after the do you love me too,

there’s no word that means:

of course i do,

these fibers burn for you

i’ve already rearranged the galaxy to a constellation of you

why isn’t there a phrase that means all three of these things

and so much more? sometimes i love you just doesn’t feel like

enough for me to say to you.

perhaps...suppose i’m overthinking again? it’s like, loving you

took me on a path of self-discovery, unknowing need; originally,

i thought i’d lace this piece with quotes, but i don’t want

an artist’s voice to speak my heart; i’m selfish darling; i want you

to remember my voice, the whisper of it, like i do yours.

& as i picture your hand trying to cover up

that awfully cute smirk, all i ask is for,

those magic words.