How I’d write you in poetry, like in the armed books of women to their first love –

The moon looked more vividly warm that night brushed against the clouds, the wind was curled up in the west of the city, and the sky had a light tint of blue, like it was making the most idyllic scenery for us to finally meet eyes, to touch souls, held hands as we walk past cremated walls of the past us, I left flowers for us near the grave with carved names of us as I decided to lock eyes with you just for a second my world stopped, paused.

I felt my heart in my stomach wrapped in your arms. Gasped for air, as the air seemed lighter to breathe around your ode. The clog in my mind didn't put on weight as I recollected all the shards of the mirror, I epitaphed missing you, glued it together so I could give it to you, to love the maimed of me. And the defeated of yours. And the flawed of us.

For the first time, I've felt so close to you, like I know every bridge of your soul that takes off downhill and every smile that's from the depth of your bones, like I  recognize you enough. 

In the way the numb takes over the surface of your emotions, captivates it until you feel the dusk in the sky. Some days the dawn seems better on you, some days the tide overflows you, some days you manage to float on it, and some days I seem better with you. I'm not sure I know all of you, but in what I've collected, knowing you has made me want to ache with you, to breathe with you. The part of me which wanted to cease breathing has been wanting to inhabit this body just for you. To resound my soul next to yours, to pace my breath with yours.