where have you come from? are you made of stardust, passion, and my own imagination? i couldn’t have possibly imagined you, for you are all the things i never knew i was looking for. all the things i never imagined one woman could possess.
your beauty beyond compare. i could look at you endlessly. endlessly. sustain me with your humble smile, with your hungry eyes, your silly words. sustain me with the sweet sound of your voice. the savory sound of your sigh. for all i can do is be lost in you.
am i but a silly woman? wanting to be the object of your desire. though you desire all the things that i do not know how to obtain. too much of nothing, too little of everything. your existence, without me next to you, is pure suffering. share your thoughts with me. i am starving to know you. to understand what magic has brought you here to cause me such sweet agony. unable to eat, sleep, or think clearly. i am but a silly woman.
i am frustrated to have found you. you in all your beauty, kindness, and wit. you in all your sultry, effortless charm. i am frustrated. i am starving to know more. where have you come from?
what was love supposed to be for you? tell me about all the preconceived ideas of love that have shaped who you thought you’d be. everything you thought love would be is nothing i have to offer. but what i have, is worth everything.
this is why you’re going to choose me.
i am youthful. my smile. my sense of imagination. my hope in the darkest of nights. i have been hurt tremendously. i still love. and love. and love. i love like a child. forgetting the wrongs. believing the good. forgiving. giving.
i am soft. soft in every connotation you could imagine. my heart could not fathom impure intentions. i am a lover. lover. lover. i hated the word lover for so long because it’s often a word used to describe a person who you have sexual relations with. i need a word that means more, because my lover, i want to have relations with your soul.
i am a writer. i will write about your lips and how the fullness of them melts into the fullness of mine. how i love the way touching you, any point of contact, feels like a submersion of me into you. i will write about the way your eyelashes look like butterflies resting on your closed eyes as you sleep. and the way they transfer to my stomach as your eyelids open to look at me. i speak in lyrics more than i do words. i write more than i will ever be able to vocalize. my mind is chaotic. words flying around in circles while i stand below trying to catch the ones that fit just right. the ones that make your eyes real enough to melt into when i read about them once again.
i am a hoarder of memories. like the way you smelled the first time we met. the feeling of sweaty palms the day you didn’t let go of my hand. or that monday in may, we devoured two pots of coffee and danced in the kitchen all morning long. my mind is a record player, constantly spinning, the sound of your laughter– your bliss. an endless soudtrack playing in the background as we snuggle into bed on cold nights. induging in the nostalgia, and one another.
maybe your ideas of love aren’t as neatly packed or clearly outlined as you believe them to be. it’s possible you’ll find what you’re looking for in someone like me. maybe remaining open to feeling, falling, living, will yield a happiness even you could not foresee.
i didn’t have the words for you. i barely had them for myself.
even if i did, there’s so much you didn’t know. you couldn’t have understood any of this. why my heart was breaking. why my legs were shaking. holding you in my arms. for the last time. watching my pain manifest on your face. you were almost my son. i wanted to make you proud. as proud as you made me. with nothing but your smiles and the songs your heart sung. your optimism and your love, not yet jaded by this bitter world. i wanted to teach you things. things you wouldn’t have learned from anyone else. i wanted to share what wisdom i have with you. for we share a softness that the world will want to harden. we have a glow that the world will want to dim. life has a way of ruining things, before they can even begin. i wish, if not for more time with you, to relive every moment with you in our memories at least once more. or at least an infinite amount of times. then my heart will never have to break.
and you will never have to wonder why i’m not there now.
writers drink because writing makes you drink. writing makes you want to forget. to be a writer is to be vulnerable and to let other people see you at your lowest point. whether that be empty, regretful, chest bare, humiliated, bleeding, begging or barely breathing. being a writer is brave. it is not work for the weak of heart or those who hide when their demons call their names from dark corners. when trying to write about certain times in my life, certain experiences, it rips me apart. it breaks my heart over and over again. one would think writing is a form of masochism. reopening every wound that has ever pierced my flesh or scarred my soul. writers drink because after the words reach paper, sometimes we are still left with nothing but pain. nothing but hurt. not just any hurt. old hurt. hurt that has had time to become a part of who we are. hurt that doesn’t go away. hurt that we thought we had forgotten. that we tried to forget because forgetting is the only way to keep on living. if just one person who reads these words feels a sense of comfort. comfort in knowing that they are not the only one. comfort in knowing that they are not alone. it makes all the pain worth it. and i will rip my heart wide open for you. over and over again..
i miss you everyday, but i’m not going to call. believe that it kills me not to everytime i remember your exquisite face. the way your eyes captured me. i want to but there are so many reasons why i can’t. why i shouldn’t. we see the world in varying perspectives. my perspective still shifting. yours seems to be as well. we are like magnets pushing eachother away when we get just close enough to admire one another. if we were living in a different time, our paths may not have crossed. star-crossed lovers, in a strange sense is how i see you and i. ironic. all those night staring up at the sky together in awe. i just wanted to make you happy. but making you happy, it wasn’t making me happy anymore. you aren’t hard to love. that came easily. what was hard, was feeling lovable to you. i shouldn’t have had to try. no one is at fault. we just weren’t right for eachother despite how much I loved you. despite how much i planned for us to work. my planning made you uneasy. your blasé approach made me anxious. my anxiety frustrated you. your frustration hurt me. my hurt made you feel guilt. i would never write badly of you because when I think of you, i usually remember all of the good times. all of our jokes. all of our exploring. the way we would stay up all night cuddling between conversations on the couch, when we were getting to know one another. i think of our dinners. our dates. our time spent together, happy. you won’t feel like you’re too much of anything for the right person.
they’ll understand all the things you don’t say.
i wish that I could have, for i truly loved loving you. but you deserve to be happier than i could have ever made you. sometimes i forget but..
our lives may never intersect again, but this isn’t goodbye.
my experience with you felt like traveling in time. traveling back to a place that i could have belonged to. in love with you. your fantasy felt more to me like my past life. a reenactment. you think you dreamed me up but it was i who summoned you. it’s so peculiar, all that you are. all that you were. all that you have yet to become. i, so much like a cat and curiousity is killing me. when it comes to you. i want to know everything. you are the greatest mystery of my life. the puzzle i will no longer try to solve. one day i will understand the meaning behind you and I. until then, i think i understand as much as this. there is a reason for everything. we’ve done unforgivable things to one another. yet, i forgive you. you hold a very special place in my heart. i may have been a sentence in the story of you, but you were the prequel to the story my heart will someday tell. the story will exist because you still exist within me.
When she closes her eyes
The world that she’s known
She is warmly welcomed
Into a dream
Of a lover who makes her feel like
She’s never seen the world
With closed eyes
She’s running fearlessly
Battling the demons
That you have invited
Into her mind
With a sword carved and crafted
Out of love
Her eyes are closed
But her heart is wide open
She’s breaking down the walls
That you have built around her soul
Smashing wildly with precision
Removing every tiny
Lingering piece of self-doubt
That you thought
you could tuck away
Inside of her heart
She’s extracting them all
With a steady hand
What a brave, strong woman
her eyes closed
her heart free.