8 ½ by 11 pieces of paper,
That’s how it all started...
Filled with possibility-
slowly, we added more
filling the paper together
Letters sent back and forth
professing our love
dreaming for the future,
and creating lists-
lists of the future-
lists of our dreams together-
lists of future plans and happy things-
and as we listed our lives,
we forgot to live them.
we listed romantic dreams
until romance became a dream-
we listed happy things-
until we had none between us..
and then we realized…
that our little page was filled
there was no room for us...
I keep those lists,
in my book,
with me at all times
hidden from the world-
hoping that one day
we may still make those dreams we once dreamed
knowing we won’t -
the pages aren’t empty-
But I sure am-
an empty shell of my existence
a blank piece of 8 ½ by 11 paper-
All I have is
the list of our future plans and happy little things
I think it’s time to make a new one-
but damn if I won't keep trying
to one day make those lists
mean something again-
Who knew... it takes longer to move on than it does to fall in love.
Have I ever told you- I still have your boutonniere?
Perched proudly upon my poetry books~
All of the memories of "Us" may have been stored-
in a box solely for those memories
but that flower stands proudly,
untouched from the date- May 3rd
Fragile as it may be ( now dehydrated )
It remains a symbol of our love -
Filled with beauty, and fantasy-
but now dried out-
yet I still have it
Should I throw it away?
Forget and abandon it-
Or keep it as a memory?
and risk it growing on me
The longer it stays
the more questions arise...
Do you still have yours- Or is it gone forever?
Do withered flowers lose their beauty?
Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-
But I do know how to tell a true love story -
So let’s begin,
True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -
In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.
and that’s what makes them “true.”
But what is this coveted “love” -
Love, is a constant state of illusionment-
A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be, can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-
A quid pro quo between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-
Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-
Characterized by spontaneity-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-
Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-
So you want to know how to write a true love story?
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -
A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe
So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-
I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”
I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of utter normalcy
I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-
I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.
Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
..And that is my true love story-
yet innately harmonious
a cacophony of noise
shrouding my body
battering from above
heat and humidity
caressing my body as I walk
Barefoot on the open gravel
Shouts are heard
from countless merchants
from the shops and bazaars
the honking of horns
the ringing of bells
and motor rickshas
people bustle around
performing a dizzying range of tasks
yet all working
to a common goal
Yet amidst the chaos
Children run through the streets
weaving between countless giants
to sate their desire for fun
and exercise their fragile innocence
unmarred by the horrors of the world.
A beautiful mess
of livelihood and dreams of success
a true cultural experience for the senses
While it may not seem the most appealing at first
I don't know how else to stress
an amazing experience for all who enter nonetheless
I wanted to write you something..
About how two dorks meet
And fall for each other
Then imagined how you'd read it
calling it clichè
after reading just a bit
Most of my poems for you end up that way.....
That's what I'm going to write about today.
I hate that word clichè
What does it mean anyway?
Is it bad, is it wrong?
Is it something that people frown upon?
I wouldn't dare to talk of your ocean eyes, in which I get lost
Or Those horrid stars
Who knew not of "twinkle" till they saw your eyes
I would never write about your dimple, your voice... I mean like that's even a choice
I should write of things less clichè
Like pirates... With manatees ...On a spaceship.. Keeping' it simple
Do you despise clichè?
Seriously.. Tell me if you feel that way....
I can most certainly write about
Much more you see
From your pyromania
To love of the big city
From the middle name of Claire
... And let's not forget the hair
And while i still understand not of this clichè
All I have left to say-
My my friend
And I love you <3
yet deceitful, and burning with hate
she tempts one an all,
to dance before her world's entrance gate
an artist, a poet,
with but one greatest regret
for the art that she hath mastered
that left her audience unable to applaud
Sent down from your throne in heavens gate
to the torrential dullness of earth
the mear morals around me would call this "paradise lost"
yet I refer to it as my paradise found
For were the angles to be banished to earth
what may one state the difference be?
If there be such beauty in this world as you-
heaven doth speak out of sheer vanity
as to call itself the epitome of prosperity?
and forth to label itself paradise
for as far as the mear mortal known as I
true paradise lay not in gates of pearl,
yet rather in your heart of gold