You start in my heart, nostalgia carries you to brain, you fall into my blood, bursting through each vein, you seep into my muscles, bounce across my spine, you rush to my fingers where you most like to spend your time.
You pick up the pen for me, push her against the page, you hate what’s pure, you crave the chaos, so you move my fingers like a train without lights rushing towards darkness. I let you ride, to fight you…is useless. I let you move inside me, creating your page with mayhem and confusion.
I’m fiery, but when you’re inside me we are the electricity running New York City.
Pen to page, your heart inside my spine, creating rage, drawing out pain that couldn’t be saved, suffocating passions while exploiting hidden talents. This isn’t me writing, this is you, the passion that keeps you riding, though no one sees it in you, they find it in my writing, when your hearts inside mine, creating the page you knew could not be written, the page you compliment me for— it’s you. What you see in me, is you, or you wouldn’t see it. The best parts of me you love, is everything you are.
Can’t you see, the power you give me? Can’t you see, what you’ve starved yourself of?
Pen stops. Your hearts tired, my fingers are wired, hearts emptied of all desire. You leave me breathless when I look back on our page— the page you hate, the page that keeps me sane denying me of rage, keeping me from ever having a bad day.
I step back; look at what we’ve done. I’ve emptied my heart; I’ve created a tangible life form, I place fingers on heart, I hear her marching on, I see that she has emptied you, I feel that you are gone.
You thought it was just a piece of paper, you thought it was only a poem. You didn’t know it was my heart, you brilliantly transformed.
I read the lines before me. I read aloud my emptied heart; each of your beats is bouncing before me, as I place down each feeling that has been transformed from love, to only art.
Brain no longer knows you, you rode with my nostalgia onto the page, heart emptied every piece of you, ink life transformed you, it is the only way I can read you.
I’m still fiery,
just not New York City’s source of electricity.
You’re still fiery too,
but no one knows it after you’ve left me, after your memory no longer haunts me.
Your heat on the page, my fingers with your rage. Isn’t it brilliant? Wasn’t it fun?
You’ll never love me, and if you did, I’d never love you back.
But in your hurry to save your heart, you left your brilliance in me,
I’ll never give her back—
it’s the only part I want.
You start in my heart.
You end in millions of hearts as they read the phrases you created when you were nostalgia raging through me, when you started in my heart, when you picked up my pen and forced me to fight with your heat, through my head.
Isn’t it brilliant? Wasn’t it fun? Does it make you happy, does it make you want to fire a gun?
Does it leave you breathless? Does it break open your heart?
As you look back on the page, nostalgia fills your lifeless veins with cayenne rage.
Does it make you hate me? Does it make you hate the pen, the page, Or the story?
Does it even matter?
It was so brilliant. It was so fun.
I watch your innards fall apart, I watch them break free from your body, they crave the exposure, they want to come with me, they want to keep feeling, they love the pen, and they need the story.
I turn them back, I say goodbye, I watch them fall back to the page, back into the bed you laid.
There’s a magic in the room, there’s a fire storming through me. I’m more alive than EVER, mind is peaceful, centered.
I’m a back handspring on the balance beam, I’m the gymnast at the fair walking the bare wire. I’m the lady in red BURSTING with height and cayenne fire.
It’s such a pretty day, it’s such a precious story.
It’s the way I think of you (as you think nothing of me—at all).