“I’ll never ask you to be anything other than exactly you.”

I will wait, I am waiting, and I will love you with all the love I posses until this body is ash and I begin my search for you again.

All I know, all I can comprehend of the mathematics of a life, are the times your hand is inside my hand, and the times it is not.

Some days I wake up and all I feel are the fractures in the flesh that covers the only me I’ve ever known.

Look up more than down. See more than say. Listen more than speak. Hope more than dread. Believe more than criticize. Yes more than no. No more than maybe. Laugh more than cry. Love more than hate. See. More. See.

Just keep waking up, dragging yourself out of bed. It will get better.

I would love to say that you make me weak in the knees but to be quite upfront and completely truthful you make my body forget it has knees at all.

I find you in storms, I feel you in the lightning, I miss you in rain.

You are exactly Precisely and perfectly What I waited for.

Will you tolerate the strangeness inside of me, the quirks of my soul?

Are they beautiful? The lines left from suffering, Scars of emptiness.

When I’m an old man, I don’t want to count the years, we forgot to share.

Don’t ever tell me I’m broken if you will not be the glue, and please don’t point out the fractures if that’s all you’re allowed to do.

And you loved me like I was, and had always been, the answer and the question did not, and would never, matter.

There is no difference: Love is love and love is love. We are all the same.

I want the light filtered down through the trees painting flesh like a mosaic and filling up the dark in me. I want to see how sunset decorates your hair.

I am so tired of waking to the blank canvas of morning and realizing it won’t be painted with you.