n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
My feelings for you
the bullet you dodged,
your feelings for me
my forbidden fruit,
the bullet that never touched me.
Your almost kisses
almost skin on my skin
almost warmth -
I know that even when our fire burns out
there’ll always be this teasing spark.
When I saw the sun shine on your face
and felt daisies blossom in my sadness
I knew I was in love with you
and I knew that it would hurt
Because I have bruised skin, pokes away from tearing
scars that sting from all the times I’ve fallen
and a broken heart
from getting kissed by boy who didn’t love me
and not getting kissed by a girl who did
but none of that hurts more
than me having to stop myself
a few steps behind you
in the middle of the hallway and
against every fiber in my being
convince myself not to “run into you”
because I’ve seen the way you look at her
and I have to feel happy for you
that they are out there
My blood boils
because it knows
that my heart is in in danger,
but my mind can’t decide
whether it’s scared
You remind me of light
because your eyes always glimmered
and the way the sun shone on your face made me fall in love
even after the electricity between has us expired,
I still feel the occasional spark.
you hurt me,
you don’t know
that you hurt me.
I forced myself out of bed, and good things happened.
Love always looks friendly from a distance,
but whenever I touch it, it burns.
He offered her flowers,
but she declined
because her best friend
who loves him
stood beside them.
And, nights before,
he kissed me
because my lips have nothing to do with their love triangle
and my pain doesn’t matter.