maybe love is to watch a thousand winters pass, and still stand by his side because you know he's made of spring

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.

I don't always want to look back
with a glance
it serves me at times to look back
to the past & stare
Like a stranger, I step into
what is now my history
I become my own present tense
I see a girl transition into a woman
I see her first love, her first heartbreak
I stay in those moments
I absorb them in ways I didn't back then
collecting stories my body still holds
but seeing them with new eyes
letting my myself feel the things
I once feared
Wanting them to fill me, so
I can store them, in memory not scars
I want to sit, whisper & promise my past self
It's going to be okay
because it always has been, &
it always will be
But she's not the one who only needs teaching
I'm the one who needs to learn
As I sit in my history
I sit with pain, knowing
it will serve me.

© Sia Jane