what stars are made of

Ezrah, This is ridiculous. I miss you, and it goes without saying that Jude does too. I think he’s going a little mad, in fact. I went over to his place again today. He’s not doing any better, really. He drank two cups of coffee in an hour, and it took him twenty-seven minutes of me being there to just to say something. I know because I had nothing else to do but stare at the ticking clock. I think you should write to him. I love receiving your letters every week, Ezrah, but I think we both know that Jude needs them more. This has gone on long enough already. I ended up staying the night with him. He barely spoke, but at one point, he turned to me with this weird look on his face and said, “I was thinking I should visit him, but I wouldn’t know what to say.” I told him that if he did visit you, I would go with him and we could figure it all out together. He said he would think about it, but sort of withdrew into himself again after that. Here’s the thing, Ezrah, and I thin

In the aftermath of it all, When your hands have turned to dust, The words are said, the verdict's out Shiny metal to sharpened rust. The days come and go by, then, Relentless, choppy, a cloudy dark The candles are lit, a faint yellow Hot wax on your skin, it breaks apart. And you still wake in the mornings now But it's never like before Curtains down, wind blowing up a storm Only nothingness to adore. Afternoon comes, and the sunlight falls Right into your eyes And it moves to better places, then And one more piece of you dies. There's just something about the way you write, they claim In a way that chokes you up with dread Your hands begin to disappear The world fades to a glowing red. And this time the words are left untouched, In a corner of the room that no one can see And no good comes of that either For they haunt your blood, and every dream. And the glass bottle, half-empty now Is pushed away under your bed I never liked that ending

Here comes the snow The wind softens to a breeze You breathe out a sigh Fall against me with ease The blizzard begins to stick to the trees You grab my hand, “Let's get out of here and freeze.” Was the universe created at midnight, you ask Sometimes, staying in love with you feels like a task Here, with your cold hand in mine, is not one of those times Come a little closer for warmth, hand me the flask. And you love with your eyes firmly shut, In too deep, too far gone already, It's a wonder you come out unscathed, uncut Still warm and happy, so steady. And I grow used to your walk, To the dimples on your face Grow used to having you around On my best and worst days And how you hold me closer with your hands and your gaze Your hair after a shower, your enthusiastic ways. They find your car in shambles, on the long, winded road Said you couldn't handle how much it had snowed Wrist twisted at an angle, the blood didn't flow Body freezing, hair

To Richard Siken, The day you fall sick, I find myself on Twitter, following an account called ‘richard siken bot’ that tweets lines from your poetry every hour. It's not enough, but it's all I have. Because I don't know if you're ever going to write again. I find ‘Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out’ on the internet out of nowhere when I'm 15, and it makes me feel everything I haven't felt in months. I print it out, memorizing every word and my mind goes to a different place every single time I read it. It's my little secret, a poem I refuse to share with anyone unless I trust them completely. At 17, the poem is taped to my bunk bed, a reminder that words can create something so beautiful. At 18, I still read it every time I need to feel something. Your books arrive one afternoon, and the thrill I feel every time I look at them is unprecedented. I devour them in the next two days, and don't understand a word you mean to say. It only

on sunday, we watch the sun go down in the silence of this little lost town tuesday when you first call me sweetheart to bougainvillea and bits of my heart. your smile meets your eyes, you laugh at a joke appear out of nowhere, disappear into smoke and you leave me blushing every time you depart to bougainvillea and bits of my heart. on thursday morning, you ask me to be yours over pancakes and bedsheets and emptied drawers to kissed beginnings, this state of art and bougainvillea and the beat of my heart. here are flowers and fires and rooms painted blue you're falling in love, should i jump in, too? all i have is paper flowers and your plastic art and bougainvillea and bits of my heart. we run into clouds and kiss in the rain you bring me the sunshine, take away the pain i try and i try but the strings come apart to bougainvillea and bits of my heart. it is friday when you leave me where i don't want to be, lock away your doors, and you take away yo

There is so much feeling involved in feeling like nothing at all I breathe, I strain to be I felt it once, seven years ago, Staring at the ceiling from the upper bunk-- Close enough to touch it, only just It doesn't matter. You sleep and you eat, And you slowly begin to understand why Everyone around you is just as numb But me, not me-- I am full of life and alive And I am everything in a world that is not And when I break, the shards of glasses will be stained A little bit of rose here, the sky there And the sun never stops shining yellow And it will cut you, pierce into your skin smoothly The way I used to touch it But you will bleed and when you bleed That's when You'll finally think of me. And I want to say I'm trapped, I remember the doors shutting But it feels more like I dug myself into this hole In this nothingness, this thin forgettable light And I don't see things the way I used to see them, You'll say I'm better off but