Mess up the form of one of your past poems. Maybe the font gets really big at times, or maybe it gets really small. Maybe the words bend around the page to form a design.... [Photo Credit: Emma Parizo]
I think that this love is the way you are the laughter at the end of my sentence, my optimism. This love is the stars I gave you to hang on your wall for when your world is dark enough to make you
w o n d e r
l e a v i n g,
when I am not there, because I am never there because I am not the the kind of light you look for when you're scared.
I was the one who broke into your arms, who you h a d t o h o l d. I think that this love is a mirror of the love you feel for her, a strange, unnamed, unarmed, precious warmth wrapped in words that fold under the weight of voice and lives we both wish we could live, the different lives, the distance that feels like e m p t i ness.
Maybe one day I will tell you that I think you might be my sun. That when I shine, it is because you peek into my life. That when I cry, it is because I know our lives will both keep moving And that I am not the stars on your wall Or the heart that made you whole Or anything whole