My favorite chapter

You’re my favorite chapter
in a book
with a story like the craziest roller-coaster ride in the universe
You’re the chapter that tells every detail of the story
So perfectly
As perfect as how an astrophysicist could describe
how a star was born way up in the galaxy
and make me listen to it like it was happening right before my eyes
You’re the chapter that lit up my imagination
Like the colors that fill the reachable skin of the universe when a gaseous nebula collapses
So beautiful that I crumbled in wonder
You’re the chapter written to be so alive
you can almost hear the book’s heartbeat when you read it
You’re the chapter of the book I go back and forth to
everytime another chapter ends
especially when the other chapter was bad
So I read you again
To remind me how it is still very much typically a story
It will have times where it breaks you and drift you away from
grasping reality
And it feels like I’m your favorite chapter too
Because we don’t seem to get tired of each other
We find reasons to talk to one another
We’re our favorite chapters
And we should have written our own book
Maybe about the stars – you can write about that
Maybe about you- I would take such honor
But reality remains reality
We’re just each other’s chapter
We pass by each other after every turn of a page
We can always go back to it
And maybe tell other people about it
Or not
We have always had secret conversations
The ones where I would be at the edge of my bed listening to your voice
As if you were in front of me
You’re eyes gleaming in the darkness of my bedroom
Lighting up like stars I never get to have so close to me
And I will always remember this favorite chapter of ours
Even when it is merely
Simply
Only
A chapter.

-y.k

There is this funny thing that happens when a heartbreak-poet heals

She forgets how to put words together
She forgets what the 3 a.m wind feels like
and she forgets poetry . slowly .

And she knows how it feels like
It feels like being able to breathe again after an asthma attack
It feels like waking up to the sunlight when the last thing you remember was the midnight moonlight gentle against your window

She just could not write it down.
Because words do not work like colours
you can never just throw them in

She takes time, somedays.
Trying to recall that heartbreak,
Trying to make sense of what art it had
And why it was taken away when it left

It is very ironic when a heartbreak-poet heals
She falls soundly asleep, wishing,
she is able to wait for the 3 a.m wind,
wishing,
she remembers what poetry was like - how it feels.