When you were around,

My poetry beamed with the sun’s rays.

I was a writer-

And the questions I asked were whimsical.

“what does the color yellow taste like?”

and

“how does sadness smell?” …

I asked questions that made no sense,

Ones that never had an accurate answer.

My fingers crafted stories that were as poetic as they could possibly be.

Reality didn’t exist,

And everything was beautiful.

But when you left,

My poetry became unsympathetic,

demanding-

It made one dive headfirst into a freezing lake,

The verses hit you like reality, brick to the face,

Unexpected.

It asked questions filled with hopelessness and grief:

“why am I so in love?”

“what did the sun taste like when you were here?”

There was a hint of hurt and regret laced upon the words I wrote.

My poetry was lost without you, just like I was,

And we investigated all the letters and words possible trying to find the right ones to say and clarify why you were gone.

We shaped words upon words of our goodbyes, the please come backs,

But my poetry still hasn’t been exactly the same since.

We are chaotic,

Disorganized,

Sloppy,

We don’t know right from wrong,

Or their from they’re from there.

And we don’t know when you’ll come back,

Or how many poems we have to compose for you to open your eyes,

But we know that the sun still stores your smile.

we know that the ocean matches your eyes, and I always happen to drown in both.

And I don’t know if you understand,

But we know that the poems I create at three am are constructed with the love we have still, the fire burning between us.

I know you have no idea.

But the moon still sends me your name,

My poems are built on the lost soliloquies that I should’ve written you months ago.

They’re crafted with the last kiss you left on my lips,

And how my arms stretch for you when I wake up alone in the morning.

I know you have no idea,

But my literature screams your name from the blank eggshell colored pages,

And it refuses to hand it over.