I never know how to tell our story. I think itâs because every
love poem before you had a secret to keep, every heartache was less
boy and more bruise, more battle scar. I donât know how to
write about a love so soft. No one ever taught me the words. I
only know broken bones and purpling skin, blood mixed with ink and
verses that make it hard to use my lungs. I never thought I could
love a boy who taught me how to breathe. Every one before you was
harsh summer sun and they all were best at burning me. You are a
cool winter breeze, the best kind of ache. You are more than just
not them, and I never know how to put it in a poem, how you are so
much more than that, how you are all I ever needed, how you are
everything to me. Â