My favourite person in the entire world is a broken canvas
An unfinished poem
My favourite person tastes like the sound the clock makes when you’re about to kiss your favourite person
Like forgotten classical music
My heart is in shambles and uses crutches, from the wreckage I’ve faced
From the despair I and my favourite person have undergone
My favourite person in the world is a misfit, a typo by God
So how the fuck do you expect me to be normal?
How do you expect me to be usual?

Dear You,

It’s like the sound of dogs at the dead of a Tuesday night
You, you are Dante poetry recited by a dumb experienced writer.
You, you are nothing but music with absolute entropy on a coloured piece of paper
Seen as noise by many who pass by, but for those who stick around long enough, they see the art in the twinkle of your smile.
The view from my side is beautiful, what your face looks like.
Your righteous soul is a merchandise on the organ market
– illegal to sell, but you see, there might be someone out there who would die if they don’t get a taste of this perfection.
Cupid must be fucking irresponsible, the way she keeps throwing darts made from your eyes to my chest.
Maybe, maybe I should stop docking and just take a hit.
Maybe, maybe you don’t have to die to make it to heaven, you just have to look in the mirror.
Or maybe you have to die, for others to appreciate your beauty, and see your perfection clearer.
Dear you…