when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.
love was never meant to bejust a metaphorbetween the pages of poetry.
sometimes i am not sure.if i am writing the poemor the poemis writing me.
i immersemyselfin youlikei immerse myselfinto a beautiful story.
How….will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.
the mostbeautiful tideis the sweepof your heartagainst mine.
If my life were a fragrance, it would smell like the sea.
when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.
lean in to kiss mein all the placeswhere the acheis the most special.
I blink January’s lashesand gush down December’s cheeks
i have laughedmore than daffodilsand cried more than June.
i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.
Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.
when i write of you, my deari am holding youin the most exquisiteways.
leave me a smilejust warm enough…to spend a milliongolden afternoons in.
A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.
i am alwaysstalking you, my dear. with my thoughtsmy words.my breath.
Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.