All those irregular verbs and the difference between au and de la; Vocabulary forever just out of reach and trying to wrap my tongue around foreign vowels. Baby, that’s what loving you feels like because I’m not fluent in whatever language this is so all I know how to say is I love you; How you make me feel is a universe beyond the observable and I’m trying to cram stardust into three old words.
No one is scared of heights we're all just terrified of falling. I am not afraid of being loved I'm just saying the bitterness of betrayal hasn't quite been scrubbed off my tongue yet.
I never write poems about my anger, maybe because I can’t find anything beautiful in it; there’s something about sadness that makes the poet dream in similes probably since it’s such a crystal-clear reflection of what you care about. There’s no hesitance to write about love, of course. It’s a victory, because the sheer numbers set the game against you; what were the odds in millions and billions of people, you’d find happiness in that second soul and how could you keep that out of your poetry? But there is nothing romantic about anger and I cannot find a reason to detail a soul in havoc; his or mine.
There are, I think, a lot of love poems and I wonder why we ignore redundancy to thread our heart’s beatings into a tapestry already hundreds of feet long; Must be that human urge to shout into the void “I am here!” For one flickering cosmic second a hand to hold made you feel like you mattered.