Remember, a stranger once told you that the breeze here is something worth writing poems about.

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know there’s nothing but light when I see you.

I don’t want to know what your favorite color isbut I do want to know what color you bleedwhen you’re with me.

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know there's nothing but light when I see you.

I will never fail to inflate my lungs for you when you're a hundred miles deep, heading headfirst towards a telephone pole - screaming - because you have pulled out all your own brakes.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket. All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supplecurves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for milesand miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love. They will love you anyways.

Last week I pocketed a thesaurus and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you willrealize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

I hate seeing poetry in everything I touch. I hate that I can no longer love you without turning you into a metaphor - that it can never be simple as looking at you and saying yes, yes, yes.