When I met you it was 65 and windy and the white skies were home.
You walked through the door, locked eyes with me, and that was it; I was hooked.
I was always confused as to why people said they felt butterflies.
What did it mean to have butterflies in your stomach when you liked someone?
What did it mean to have butterflies in your stomach when someone liked you?
And why did I never have them?
but now there are butterflies in my chest cavity, collar bone, kidneys, toes, and all over.
there are butterflies all over,
because of you.
my whole body shook hours after you took my hand and told me
it was nice to meet me.
no one has thought it was nice to meet me in years,
since I was a child and “cute” was still a good compliment,
when “beautiful” seemed like an adult word.
I used to think that our eyes would meet when we were in the same room together,
but they didn’t just simply meet,
they slammed right into each other and have not looked away.
We fell in love faster than a hurricane swallows a city near the ocean
And we fell so hard that our knees cracked on the pavement, but it didn’t matter,
It never mattered, when we could lick the other’s wounds.
I am not going to lie and say that loving you was easy,
Because there were days where it was harder to love you than it was to get out of bed.
Falling in love and drowning have a lot of similarities. You’re being completely consumed, it’s hard to breathe, and you’re lucky if you make it out alive.
We stayed up all night long every Friday night learning each other inside out, relearning each other,
Every crack and every crevice was our home.
We never wanted to forget who we were and what we meant to each other, we were always afraid of forgetting.
Sunday mornings we fell In love over coffee and tea, with our sleepy eyes and messy hair, we were cranky and feisty but we were home, we were always home.
But home can be cold and winter came and we grew very tired,
But we grew together.
We always grew together.
I forgot to tell you this was a story.
I forgot to tell you this was fiction.
That this was day dreams and wishful thinking.
A poet can write through a whole relationship with its ups and downs, hardships and laughs, sleepless Friday nights and Sunday morning coffee, all before the first kiss.
But the problem is, when a poet writes about you, and you leave before any of it can happen;
it ruins her.
Please do not ruin her.
Please do not ruin me.