my pockets are full of candy wrappers.
to write is to feel. i unwrap the strawberry candy of my words and let it slowly melt on my tongue, the plastic wrapper crinkles in my fist. i cannot steal butterflies, so i grow them, nourish them and feed them with my words, so that they will flutter in my stomach. i dig, claw first, in my misery in hopes of finding a heart shaped locket with your name in it. i write about whatever it was, is, and was meant to be. my lifelong, big, cinematic pink romance are the words that caress my face and pumps blood through my veins.
i would have left you my entire heart if i could.
i wanted to leave my brown beaded bracelet around your wrist, but i forgot. however, i put three small packets of the prawn cocktail crisps you like in your backpack when you were not looking. i hope that’s okay. i keep wishing you left one of your silver rings on the table at Laila’s. i’d put it in my pocket so that you’d have a reason to come back. i’ll keep the polaroid in my phone, so that comes with me on every journey. and when the worn down phone case finally caves in, i get to tell them about my soulmate. and how you scared the hell out of me by the Scott Monument. i’ll tell them about the crystals we picked out for each other and the exact number of Smints you put in the palm of my hand (the spearmint ones, not strawberry). i left you with my sweater vest, the one that fits you so much better than me. you left me with your poetry book, it fits me perfectly.
my love is mine, all mine.
i carry her with stars in my eyes. she is in the curls and soft coils of my hair, and in the words that i speak. i carry her in every tear and in every stroke of pen to paper. i carry her on my lips in a black honey hue and show her off with a bright smile. i carry her smudged mascara and yawns on sleepless nights. i carry love with me to bed and let her rest soundly in the walls of my heart and i protect her.
nothing in the world belongs to me, but my love.
her
it was when i was left hollow at a train station i realized that i had been loved in the way i love. poetically, beautifully and with a hint of melancholy somewhere in between. she puts orange slices in my hands and says “here, have my heart”, and suddenly i’m overflowing to the point of spilling drunken “i love you” texts after midnight – to the right person this time.
