i am not writing poetry about you yet because i haven’t found language that is careful enough for your back against my fingertips. in a room that is too loud, you are the softest noise i’ve known. if anyone was made for my hands, it was you. if anyone was made for my eyes, it was you. i want you to know that it doesn’t matter that we could only hold hands in the dark at the start, that there were spaces made for us and they were grass patches next to rivers in the middle of the night, the back of movie theaters, the empty end of the bar. i wanted to touch you everywhere, and i swear that i tried, in our stolen hours, to put my fingers anywhere that i thought they’d fit and it still wasn’t enough because i imagined your knees. and how the skin on your legs is as soft as dawn, and how i would have pressed my cheek against them and kissed you there for hours and that would have been the way we tallied our moments together. the makeup marks on your shirts and your fingers and that space beneath your jaw feels exactly like the poetry i would write if i knew how. i have had you in every way but there are still spaces inside of me that are waiting for your hands. there are still parts of your heart that i have not reached. the night is long when you’re not around and i am in mourning for my collarbones and my shoulders and my hips, i am in mourning for all the parts of me that are missing you. the moon is kissing my skin and asking, “where is she and why isn’t she here?”
Anonymous asked: Who do you write about most ?