For those who don't know it, I tend to fall in love hard and I tend to do it quickly. Whether it be platonically or romantically, I give it my all until it wears me thin and then some. I spend hours awake thinking about the people I love in my life and what kind of role I play in theirs, and it often leaves me with scattered thoughts that I can't piece together. This poem is a reflection of that in which I jump from different times with different thoughts, usually all relating back to the people I love in one way or another.

. . .

It's 2:56 a.m.

and I can't sleep.

Being wrapped up

in familiar sheets

that smell a lot like

lemons to me

is not comforting.

My mind is running laps

around my exhilarated heart

hoping to find a way

to pull you in to hold your hand.

I want to hold your hand.

I want to fight for this,

to fight for us,

for you,

for me,

for everything, we can become.

I want to fight because fighting

until my last breath has been taken

for someone like you,

even if it doesn't work,

seems so much better

than watching you walk away.

My dear,

you are the inspiration

behind the words I write.

You could tell me that

the Underworld is a lot like

drowning,

but that you'd like to try it anyways

and I swear to the Gods,

I'd follow you

every step of the way

so that you wouldn't have

to fight your demons

alone.

It is 3:01 a.m.

and no one dreams

about you more than I do.

I often dream about

words becoming

real life surgeons

who are able to mend

the broken pieces

back to our fragile hearts.

I know for a fact that if a surgeon

came to my home,

pounding on my damn door

and screaming about how

they can fix my shattered parts,

I'd redirect them to your own

broken heart

because I long to see

your smile.

I'd tell them that your heart

is singing upbeat songs

with different meanings

in hopes someone

will understand

and that your heart

wants to sing the blues

but doesn't quite know how yet.

I'd tell the surgeon to leave

a small part of you

broken,

damaged,

undefined

because scarred hearts

and scattered brains

are what makes us human.

it's 3:37 a.m.

and sometimes

I write to feel the pen

scratching on looseleaf.

It is a reminder that here,

in every moment,

my history is being written.

And if I were to write a book

they'd see your name

over

and over

and over again,

They'd see your name and

they'd hear the words you

speak to me during

midnight phone calls.

Your name would rest

forever in their own minds

reminding them that

love is so wonderful.

Oh, Gods,

is our love wonderful.

And if I wrote a book,

I'd write about the quiet people.

I was alone and quiet.

I think people often times forget

that quiet people can still hear you speak,

we can hear you in a different sort of way.

we can hear the cracks in your voice

when you speak about someone

who use to mean a lot to you.

We can hear the way you hesitate

before you casually announce the name

of someone who broke you.

We can hear the healing in your laughter,

sweet,

but not put together quite yet.

I am an observer of the Earth,

I can hear your silence,

and I understand.

I think most importantly is

that it's 2:56 a.m.

and I can't believe how much

I love you.

If I were to die before you,

I would crawl my way

through the pits of the Underworld,

my knuckles bloodied and bruising,

and I would make my way to Olympus

and tell the Gods

that They can't have you.

You are my home.

You are the only home

I've ever known

and I will go to the

end of the galaxy

protecting the stars that you hung.