One of the first things I learned from my parents, is that everyone has secrets, these secrets that I find in mood swings and things that are pretty small but still pretty on relationships are always marked red on my poetry.

And these words that I write

Are like kisses to my lips

As are the tips of pencils and pens and stolen lip balms from friends I lost a long time ago to the time or maybe the lack of time.

Sometimes these kisses feel so sweet as they rhyme just like when the waves are hitting the shore perfectly but some other times I'm hurting and I worry that happiness is far from here and agony is all there is

I wonder if one day I'll look back to today and think about all the problems that I have as not problems but purely imperfections of character in a chapter of a hopefully fulfilling life, simply reactions to actions and maybe someday I'll be fine with time just passing by.

Maybe one day someone will kiss me on the lips and their tongues will flick as they touch my hip and their love will stick like candles, his lips will be softer than words, maybe his smell will hit me like a melody that comes with uneven tones but rhymes perfectly and fully with the beat of my heart that though is healthy is incredibly sick when I look at you.

I don't know what is it about hearts but sometimes they just want to dance out of nowhere and is pretty uncomfortable but still more comfortable than the butterflies that usually reside in my stomach or the weird sweat in my palms, why are my palms so sweaty?

Maybe his hands will stroke my hair just like how the waves lick the sand and he'll whisper nonsense in my ears and it will sound like Shakespeare or something and everything will be just fine.

I don't know what's up with my lungs sometimes they decide to inhale and exhale in a different beat than my mind tells them to be, and it's driving me completely crazy.

Maybe one day my poetry will reside in his heart and his heart will reside in my heart, which might make my poetry sloppy and kinda lame and insecure, loving you has no cure. Maybe his hands will smell like spring and flowers blossoming with no thorns, a devil with no horns, and it will all be made purely of acts based on lame prose and love.

Maybe one day all my poetry will be about your hair or whatever, like the way you sit in the school stairs and stares and when I catch the glimpse of your eye on mine and I swear, when you kiss me, my tongue feels the taste of forever.

Your breath feels like forever, it itches happiness and freedom. Your hair feels like the color of good books and salt water while the faint freckles keep reminding me of the way home.

Maybe this guy will be just mine for just a little time and we'll live in the lines of the palms of our hands and our pulses between the crooked crooks of our necks and we'll bet who can reach the moon first.

We'll say living is so hard but it's just so much better with you, it's so much simpler when you tell me I'm pretty and pretty awesome too. When we share our whispered poems like the wind blows the trees and how the way you look at me changes me. Cause I swear. It changes me.