Lang Leav

Will you love me enough? Love me so much that your heart can barely hold it—that it would break every other heart you’ve ever held?

When it is given to you,
in dribs and drabs.

A Dream

As the Earth began spinning faster and faster, we floated upwards, hands locked tightly together, eyes sad and bewildered. We watched as our faces grew younger and realized the Earth was spinning in reverse, moving us backwards in time.
Then we reached a point where I no longer knew who you were and I was grasping the hands of a stranger. But I didn't let go. And neither did you.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I had my first dream about you last night.
Really? She smiles. What was it about?
I don't remember exactly, but the whole time I was dreaming, I knew you were mine

Souls

When two souls fall in love, there is nothing else but the yearning to be close to the other. The presence that is felt through a hand held, a voice heard, or a smile seen.
Souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to be with one another.
This is the reason why you miss someone so much when they are not there—even if they are only in the very next room. Your soul only feels their absence—it doesn't realize the separation is temporary.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Can I ask you something?
Anything.
Why is it every time we say good night, it feels like good-bye?

She lends her pen,

to thoughts of him,

that flow from it,

in her solitary.

For she is his poet,

And he is her poetry.

To new beginnings,

in fear and faith

and all it tinges.

To love is a dare,

when hope and despair,

are gates upon it hinges.

Love is a game

of tic-tac-toe,

constantly waiting,

for the next x or o.

To love him

is something,

I hold highly

suspicious.

Like having something,

so very delicious—

then being told,

to do the dishes.

I know that I don't own you,

and perhaps I never will,

so my anger when you're with her,

I have no right to feel.

I know that you don't owe me,

and I shouldn't ask for more;

I shouldn't feel so let down,

all the times when you don't call.

What I feel—I shouldn't show you,

so when you're around I won't;

I know I've no right to feel it

but it doesn't mean I don't.

I deplore,

being ignored.

For—

I am not a bore!

But it's perplexingly sweet,

and quite sexy too—

to be ignored,

ignored by you