You were every bit kind as you were rough,

acupofkeen:

Maybe it was just my lack of adjectives or maybe it was the way you made me lose my train of thought, but there was something about the way the winds moved with the waves, or how the heavens made the sky clearer that night. I couldn’t pin point what it was that made my breathing go in sync with…

"But how do you know?" He asked. "How do you know you’re in love?"

She smiled.

"When just being with them is enough."

the problem poets have is that we really just want to live
inside a poem.

we want our lives to be like the ink on pages, we want
bruises on our kneecaps and kisses on our foreheads
so we can have love and pain in equal measures

and i want to wake up with you making
pancakes in my kitchen, i want
your bags packed and your hands full
with two plane tickets, i want you to say
“i’m coming with you, we’re going on an adventure”
i want you to be as wild and full of romance as i write you

but you’re a human being and today i woke up alone
and after awhile got a text from you asking if i
needed a ride to the airport. there were no flowers
when you came for me, no interfering with the intercom
so you could read me a dumb sonnet you wrote last night
while drunk. there was only the sound of flights taking off
and lovers kissing each other over and over
until it’s kind of awkward
because the goodbye seems to stretch out over forever
and there was no teddy bear no promise ring no big send off
you just promised to call and gave me a hug, see

the problem with being a poet
is that you get all sorts of wrong ideas
about what it means to be
in love
because you can hear music in what sounds like noise
to other people, you crave the kind of flashbang that
your words can create, you romanticize the ugly because it
makes for good writing and you drain the beautiful until
it comes undone, you forget other people need space to breathe,
that you live in the captured moment of too-perfect
impossibility, you forget that he can’t read your mind, that
she doesn’t really like your writing, that they would rather
watch sports than go out tonight, you forget that
most people don’t try to make fireworks out of
everyday life but

eventually, after writing more pages about magic
than kisses you’ve received

you mess up and
actually start to believe.

“ Lust is Saturday night; love is Sunday morning.