This Is Not A Love Story
Somewhere between universes, I found him.
He was a pale blonde boy who tore down his walls, just to watch me build up mine.
His eyes held the flame of a thousand torches and the story of a hundred different lovers.
His hands were like oceans, lacing his waves through the brittle strands of my hair.
I never liked the water, but it was like my lungs suddenly forgot how much thy loved the taste of air.
Somewhere between galaxies, he found me-
a girl who strangely resembled a broken reflection of the person he aspired to be-
my body, a thousand different chapters I had one written, but he would never get the chance to read.
He tells me his worst nightmare is when he becomes the wave that takes me under.
Perhaps that’s why when he becomes my only island in the flood, I still feel safer drowning.
When he finally becomes the storm he swore he wouldn't be, I happily give him my hand.
I let him stuff it with a pen and the force my name onto a dotted line,
signing a death certificate that shouldn't be mine,
as he shoves me into a room that mimics my mind.
Its walls built high, dark and refined, smooth edges along its corners.
It had ghosts that silently watched as I lost my sense of time.
Every time he opens the door, I no longer drown in his ocean
but in the sliver of light outside I had been denied.
darker than the words I silently confine,
an old familiar feeling of his heart against mine,
and I'm somehow lost in the oblivion that is his divine.