Make My Dreams Come True?

I have this dream, that I've never been able to get rid of. I've been dreaming it since I was a little girl, with innocence living in my eyes. 

I have a dream that there are no such thing as endings, and that anything that is meant to be, comes back.

I believe that love, should be the most difficult thing you should go through, and that the person you are supposed to be with is supposed to destroy you. Or you destroy them.

You are supposed to get hurt in love.

For I believe, that is the only way you know if it's worth the fight. That is the only way you know how much you really want to be with someone. You both need to know what life was like without another, and thats how you know, you never want to be without them again. 

My dream you ask? Is to be asked to be loved again, by someone who once knew me.

I want to be alone in bed, reading a book, or watching my favorite show. On a really bad day, just praying for the night to be over. Counting the minutes until daylight kisses the sky. Listening to my usual playlist of sad songs. The songs I don't show anyone, and haven't shown anyone.. except him.

And just when I'm about to call it a night, and give in to the nightmares.. I'll hear a knock on my door. 

It's him, whether its with flowers in his hand, or nothing at all. Just him. And it's enough. 

My heart would be racing, wondering what's going to happen next. My minds twisting and turning with thoughts. 

"I want you, always have. Always will." 

as the words leave his lips, tears will flood my eyes. Happiness glowing within me as I jump at him, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms around me. 

I dream that my happily ever after, will be with someone who has already left a mark on my heart. Not with someone new. I dream of starting over, not new beginnings. 

I want a love that comes back. I want, "real feelings, don't just go away". 

Most nights, I get this ache inside, hoping that tonight will be the night this happens. And I've spent so many months, anxiously waiting  for that soft knock on my door.

I've come to the acceptance that I will probably never have this fantasy come true. 

the problem is, I'm still dreaming.

I can't stand these nights alone.

I just want to hear your voice, again and again, and again.

I almost gave up this dream completely.

Because I almost forgot,

I almost forgot the way his lips felt against mine,

or how our bodies intertwined  perfectly, 

nestled under a pile of blankets.

I have so much of him in my heart,

and I almost forgot. 

Darling, you are all I ever wanted love to be.

and oh...

what I would give to sleep in your arms tonight..

So I guess I'm still silently dreaming.

I guess I haven't given up completely on this fantasy.

And I know I should, and deep down, I know it will never happen.

But I guess I'm still hoping..

And I guess..

I'm still secretly wishing... that its going to be with you.

My wish is you. Always.

We've been through so much, and still.

To this day,

I feel nothing but love for you.

I want to be with you until my last page.

So I guess it goes without saying,

I'd be his, if he asked.

I Am The Writer.

Date a girl who writes.

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She'll have a neat closet space though, with almost no clothes. Because she's always wearing the same thing. And her laptop is never boring, because there are so many words, so many words that she's cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music, but you'll come to realize she has the best taste in music of anyone you've ever known. Laugh it off when she tells you she forgot to clean her room, and that her clothes are lost among the binders so it'll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes are hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop she's saved ever since she was twelve. 

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it's raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You'll know she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. 
She's the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells like coffee and Coca-Cola and Lavender. You see that girl hunched over a notebook? That's the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged in charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with hers. She will never stop, churning out adventures. She'll see the real beauty in darkness and light, fear and love. That's the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is. 

She's the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and pancakes. She's the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet). Separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she's thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peak at her cup, the coffee is already cold. She's already forgotten it. 

Use a pickup line with her if she doesn't look too busy. 

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. She'll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your opinion on how the world works. Tell her your stories and dreams, and all your deepest wishes. Ask her how her next masterpiece is coming along. 

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas, and for anniversaries, the perfect bath spa to inspire her. Don't forget binders. Lots and lots of binders. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you're behind her, every step of the way. For the lines between fiction and reality are really fluid.

She'll give you a chance. 

Don't lie to her. She'll understand the syntax behind your words. She'll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She'll understand that even the greatest of heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and in reality. She's realistic. A girl who writes isn't impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She'll understand that endings happen for better or for worse. 

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She'll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She'll understand trouble, because it spices up her stories. So no matter how hard it is, her parents will like you eventually. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human. 

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two A.M., typing furiously, the neon gaze of light illuminating her narrowed forehead. You'll admire her, the way she focused will put you in awe. So put a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of hot coco, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you. She will always come back to you. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your protector. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She'll be the one to save you. She'll whisk you away with her charm, and you will be smitten with her. She's mischievous, frisky, yet she's quiet when she has a lot on her mind. But you know her poems will be beautiful to come from it. When she cries, hold her, and tell her that it will be alright.

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York city. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publishers office. Or the spot of your first date, just to make it more meaningful. Because she's radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside the cinema where the two of you kissed in the rain. She'll say it's overused and cliche, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She'll hold you close and whisper secrets in your ears. She's lovely, remember that. She's self made and she's brilliant. Her names for children might be terrible, but you'll be okay with that. A girl who writes will be able to love the life you've created together, and find passion in the smallest things. And that's what matters to you.

Because that's the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and courage, but she's able to love more than you imagined possible, and it will be enough. She'll save you in the oceans of her dreams, she'll be your shooting star, and your 11:11. She'll be your firebird and your knight, and she'll become your world. In the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye, the dimples on her face. The words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she's not the best a grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She's witty, she's empathetic, enigmatic at times and she's lovely. She's got the most colorful life. She may be living in London, England... or a small studio apartment in Utah. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes, reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She'll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on a midnight train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn't like a story, because while she works on stories, she lives in reality. 

Date a girl who writes.

Because I am the writer, and I will love you for all of yourself. 

I am the girl who writes.

And I promise you, 

There is nothing better than a girl who writes.

Our Sunday Mornings.

I will remember the kisses.

Our lips raw with love. 

And how you gave me 

Everything you had,

and how I

offered you what was left 

of me.

And I will remember our tiny studio.

The feel of you.

The light from the window,

hitting your face in the morning.

My writing everywhere

Your books and the drape,

that hung beside the bed.

Our morning snuggles and you tickling me,

till I couldn't breathe.

Our afternoons, 

Finally making it to breakfast,

at my favorite place.

Our nights,

Making the bed together,

Cuddling in.

Our bodies spilled together,

sleeping.

The tiny flowing currents between us,

intimate and forever.

Your leg, my leg.

Your arm, my arm.

Your smile and the warmth

of you.

The person who made me laugh again.

And the person I will always,

wish to be laughing with.

Today Wasn't Easy..

Today wasn't easy.
Breathing made it hard,
keeping my heart beating made it
exhausting.

Same thing everyday.
Wake up. Breathe. Ache. Sleep.
It's the same feeling everyday,
Numbness. Loneliness. Being hollow.

There are times when silence is a poem.
But what if silence is all you have?
What if it only becomes a poem,
when it's your heartbeat that falls silent?

Soon I will be a poem.
And when I do,
I hope to be a sad poem.
One that makes people feel things,
Feel the things their mind tries so hard
to forget.

The sadness will last forever.
As will my poem.

"My One and Only, Forever."

Some things go too deep to be forgotten.

Like the way the light would hit your blue-hazel eyes in the morning.

The feeling of your rough, yet smooth hands intertwined with mine.

All the little notes we would write each other.

How I kept every rose you've ever given me.

The matching grey converse and red hoodies.

Late night Walmart trips, and break visits at work.

When we danced in the parking lot, with no music.

Our first New Years Eve.

Our 4th of July on the blanket.

The lion drinking fountain at the zoo.

And finally,

The sprinting across the school parking lot, and tackling each other in hugs and kisses, when my parents finally let me see you again.

Getting lost in you, was the best adventure I've ever had.

I can't stop wanting you, just like how I can't stop breathing.

Wanting you, is killing me.

Please don't forget me and all the things we did..

I watched my world fall apart,

the day my love left me.

Yet, in the midst of all the destruction,

I can still remember you.

Some things are too deep to be forgotten.

I want You.

I want your last name. 

Your Sunday mornings and you daily commutes.

 I want your phone calls and your quirks.

 Your sick days and your hair in my sink after a trim to the beard. 

I want your laugh. 

Your arms around my waist when I walk by. 

Your eye contact. 

Your smile. 

I want to find your lost keys. 

Do your laundry. 

I want Sunday IHOP visits. 

I want the other side of the bed to be yours, our fingers intertwined. 

I want our late night conversations. 

I want your silence. I want your heartbeat humming to mine as I fall asleep on your chest. 

I want your electricity bills and rent. 

I want the white powder all in your hair after work. 

I want your twisted past. 

And I want to be your future.

My Goodbye.

This is my goodbye.

Goodbye to everyone that I've connected with.

this is my goodbye.

My goodbye to everyone I love. And know that I will always love you.

This is my goodbye.

My goodbye to this world. And all the lessons it has taught me. 

This is my goodbye.

My goodbye to all the pain and emptiness I feel. To all the hollow spaces that have built up inside me. To all the hurt I have endured. To all my scars that have made me who I am.

It's time to leave. It's time to say goodbye. It's time to accept that i am no longer needed in this life. It's time to let go of myself, give up on myself. Just as everyone else has.

It's time to say goodbye. 

Ive become desolate.

This is my suicide.

And this, this is my goodbye.

Goodnight B.

It's pathetic really, how much I still hope it's you and me in the end. 

But then again, maybe my end isn't with someone. 

They are the one's that keep deciding they don't want to be living the moments of their precious life with me. 

Nothing goes as planned, everything breaks.

People say goodbye, everyone says goodbye. Just in their own special way, but the way you did? Killed me the most.

I can feel the memory of you pumping through my veins, I can still taste you on my lips. And I can't get rid of you.

Everything will change. Nothing stays the same. And I am the only one to blame I guess. At least thats how it seems.. I am the one everyone leaves behind. 

We used to never say goodbye, we were to afraid of a goodbye. Instead, to bit each other farewell, we only said goodnight. As a promise that there would never be a goodbye. It helped us sleep at night, knowing that we were always going to have each other. And every new sunrise, it was a contest to see who would say good morning first. And everytime, it brought a smile to my lips. 

You stopped saying goodnight. 

So I stopped sleeping. 

The nightmares become to real, waking me in screams, every. single. night.

Sleep used to be my escape from reality, it used to help me destress. Id have to take a nap every single day after work or school. 

But now?

Sleep is just the reminder of everything I no longer have. Its a reminder of everything that I love, and care, and cherish with everything in me. And now, its all gone. 

Everything.

I can never escape.

My words, feel swollen inside my throat.

My screams caught inside my frozen lungs. 

I can't stand this hell.

Maybe my end isn't with someone.

Maybe, it ends with me. And maybe, its time for the end to come. 

So my love, my forever, my eternity,

This is goodnight. And a long night it will be.

You are, and always were, worth coming apart for.

Home.

Sometimes sad is very big. It's everywhere.

All over me.

It wraps me up in its arms and sings to me.

it's twisted lullaby. Like a tortuous fantasy.

It whispers the romanticism of heartbreak and loneliness.

And I can't help but to cling to them.

I've heard these whispers for so long. 

It's starting to feel like home.

In a paradoxical way.

I've fallen in love with all of these empty spaces building up inside. All the tiny cracks, slowly expanding, letting the darkness seep through. I've fallen in love with my bruised and weak body, and how its collecting more scars by the day.

I've found this a safe place to be.

On the verge of tears.

With sobs lodged in your throat.

Lips quivering.

As well as the swollen lungs, inhaling this toxic society.

The anxiety of loss.

On the line of breathing the same air as the sunrise, or welcoming the numbness of death.

I've fallen in love with this.

It's almost as comforting as the arms that used to hold me when the world went crumbling down. The hollow feeling, is almost as soothing to my rapid heart rate, as your voice once was. Mumbling the sweet nothings in my ear. 

It has given me a feeling, that you once gave me. One that I thought I would never feel again. 

Home.

But this time, 

My home won't leave.

And it Rains.

I am alone, standing underneath a grey umbrella.

Everything is slow motion. 

The kids across the street, playing in the puddles.

The traffic following the rhythm of the stop light.

Low rumbles of the thunder,

even the slow numbing of my heart. 

Numb.

That was the world now.

That was the sky, and the traffic, and the puddle pooling around my boots, and the slight breeze tickling my cheeks. 

Numb.

I am numb.

The day you left,

The clouds turned dark,

and it rained, and rained,

and rained.

There's never a reason for the sudden change of weather.

But you changed.

Just like the weather.

It was unpredictable,

just like the weather.

The rain is my tears, and the thunder

is my breaking heart.

And here I am

Alone.

Standing underneath my grey umbrella.

October 6.

There's a gaping hole inside me.

Still.

From you.

You have cemented all of my haunting thoughts in my head, as true. 

I will breathe in this world alone.

I may have lost someone, who had never loved me.

And I like to tell myself, that you are the one who lost. Because you lost someone who truly loved you.

As each day passes, I feel the burning truth.

Most nights are rough, I lay there in darkness. Overwhelmed by the things, I wished I didn't think about.

I gave so much of myself to you, that I lay here, suffocated.

In my hand I hold the pieces,
I have left of me.

So broken, and small.

My heart aches from missing the touch of once being loved. To be held on days when its raining, and raining, and raining, in my soul. Days like this. Days like today. 

I miss the comfort,

of having someone there,

when I would return home.

But I have to learn to live with the ache.

I don't want this life anymore.

So its either, push through, and make my tears my anthem.

Or let my heart stings hang me, and have my last breathe be my "sorry ".

I could never take back my goodbye.

One things for sure.

Life has pain. 

And pain seems to be all I know. 

So the decision is made.

"The sadness will last forever."

April 11.

Such a beautiful ending to me,

So poetic, so evocative.

Such a way to die.

You are my suicide.

My Paradise..

Laying in bed.

2:07 in the morning.

Legs brushing one another.

Fingers intertwined with your arms around me.

You asked me,
"What is paradise to you?"

"Paradise is here. 

Now.

In the breath between
You and me. "


And I hope to never leave.