Playing With Fire

Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is the ash.

I don’t write you things
as much as I used to;
instead I’m lucky enough
to have the opportunity
to show you things and
to tell you things and
to sing you things and
to touch you in that way I do.

I used to write about feelings
I couldn’t express any other way,
but with you it’s effortless.

I don’t have to use these words
or a pen and a page
to escape the misunderstandings
of a world and its people,
of my mind and its torments,
to feel the relief and life that
your glance brings me.

I’ll write for you if you ask me to,
but don’t despair if I find no need to.
This used to be my escape,
but you’re my escape now.

Okay, Angel?

I get nervous when you ask me to
describe the reasons why I love you.
My mouth gets dry and my mind goes blank.
I scare myself because I then find myself
asking the same question. And more.

Why do I love this girl? How do I know?
Could I live without her? Is there a future?

After a few moments of panic and hesitation,
finding my lack of responses foreboding,
I calm myself with a simple realization:

I am happy. She makes me happy.
I love her. She is very important to me.

And, to me, that is all that matters.
I could use all the metaphors and imagery
in the world, but nothing will come close
to the peace and joy those statements bring me.

I can only hope that is enough for you too.

I understand that I
should really stop
romanticizing cigarettes.
The whole world knows
they are terrible for your health;
it is no secret.

But I think a part of me
finds it comforting, that
despite knowing the dangers
and the risk, people can still
crave the things that hurt them.

I think a part of me likes the
thought of humans making mistakes
even when they know it is a mistake.
It makes me feel better about the
mistakes I made, when I did not know
they were mistakes.

What I mean to say is,
I am not sure I will ever
become the person
I had hoped, or forgive
myself for the inaccuracy
of that estimation.
But if I’m enough to
keep you smiling,
that’s more than enough.

I’m okay being remembered
for just that. And that alone.

You walked into my life
as if you already knew
I had a place for you
deep inside my heart.


In class they taught us how
people with symmetrical faces
are considered more beautiful.
Yet the way the left side of my mouth
curves slightly more upward than the right,
is one of your favorite things about me.
One of my eyes is always smaller than the
other in photographs, and I’m quick to laugh
a “I look crazy” to hide the insecurity.
But you’re always quick to respond
with a “You’re beautiful.”
My concern for little things betrays itself
when my left eyebrow raises higher than my right;
I only noticed it recently because
it’s the face I make when you’re sad.
And I don’t like when you’re sad.
Without even realizing it,
you’ve taught me a lot of things.
Like how it’s okay to feel something
extraordinary about someone.
Even if that someone is myself.

sometimes I have to ask

Sometimes I can’t tell if you are
happy or sad because you are
tightly locked, but I ask because
I want nothing more than to know
you inside out. Sometimes I will
fail at reading you, and on those
days please remember that you
have a person who cares enough
to ask how you are when they
can’t figure it out on their own.