write this story tomorrow: girl finds record player that is mAGIC and transports her to the time of when that record was made y e a h

these poems are wrapped around you, your hair tangling up stanzas, your fingers curling around parentheses, your voice in the spaces. you are the quiet and the cadence. metaphors ensnaring your feet. just you and the words, intertwined (unlike you and me).

unlonely:

I’ve said “I’m sorry”
too many times. 
The words stain
my lips as they flow
so easily from my tongue,
stain your ears and
the evidence shows
that this is still not easy
for either of us.

i grew wings
and you plucked one
feather each day,
collecting them to
make a pillow
so that you could
rest against me.
you asked me to sing.
birds sing beautiful songs,
but i warbled in melancholy
and you fell asleep
crying into the pillow.
you built a cage,
a new home for me,
and set it upon the windowsill
so i could look out,
see the sky, but never touch it.
angels don’t belong in cages,
but you only saw me as a bird.

unlonely:

i hate that sometimes it takes me a while to remember faces and voices, to be able to outline the people i miss.  and sometimes the clouds hide the moon away and there isn’t light to see you by, and i reach out and you aren’t there and i was wondering if you could say something so i would know that you haven’t gone away.  so i know that you aren’t a fading memory.