The City Looks Different.

You can map the sprawl
of city life in the twist of
veins beneath my skin,
trace my blood flow like the shifting of the earth.

The rhythm in my chest matches
the beat of your wanderlust; the blaze of
lights and the familiar hum of crowded streets.

The oceans in my eyes are nothing
compared to the constellations
on my lashes, the curve of the
mountains in my smile.

Nature is attached to the very breath from
my lungs, the heady scent of earth and
rain clinging to my fingertips.

I am a crystal clear day.
I am a thunderstorm.

You just press kisses to
my rivers and valleys,
whether violently raging
or eerily calm.

your head rests against the branches
of my heart, your arms entangle in
the roots that span my ribcage.

(I can’t help but wonder:
are you in love with the metropolis
that sings beneath your hand or the girl?)


To breathe through the muck of life.

You’re never quite sure if you want to stand out or fit in, but here’s the secret:

You don’t get to choose. Some people were just made to burn, to shine, to bring the whole goddamn world to its knees.

And you dear, you fucking blaze.