Poetry, like any other art, is subjective.
I need your love to be enough
for me to stay.
I wonder what you tell strangers about me
because you’re not telling me much
and I’m not telling you much either
but I tell strangers about you.
Your memory rests in the shadows of my collarbone; you are dabbed like perfume
Behind the lobes of my ear, in the creases of my elbows, at the base of my neck.
And here I am, left
to pick up the pieces
to pretend I wasn’t tongue-tied, hopeful
for the kiss that wouldn’t come.
I’m scared at how fragile your Presence makes me, ready to Turn into trembling hands and Racing heart, when You are close I’m scared at how soft i become With you around, chest heaving In tandem with your breathing, a…
Like you’re the bull’s eye,
And I’m a dart.
I almost hit you,
Almost, but not quite.
I miss you.
But a part of you will always smell like he used to
because it doesn’t know how not to
because for a long time, you smelled just like that too.
What if, for once,
we choose from love
instead of choosing from fear?
as to why,
I cannot love,