about seventeen years ago,
i prayed you into existence.
i asked for a baby sister;
got you instead.
you are not what i wanted,
but know this: you are wanted.
i am six years older,
but you are always six steps ahead.
when you laugh, and your eyes light up,
i am six again
and you are young and playful and you.
you are here.
hold on to this moment. there is a poem, here.
and at the same time, there isn’t. there is so much more.
this is a moment in which words are not enough.
here lies every moment, every breath, every joy and every hurt:
all that it took for you to be here.
here is love.
the love of your family, your friends, your self.
here is hope.
it was the sun that kept you alive, the roots that kept you grounded, the rain that made you grow.
here is a small moment.
and yet, it is meaningful.
because you are in it.
here.
when i write
i am reaching out for you
(to you)
the belief (hope) that you are out there
that i have seen you
and you have seen
me
there is a longing here
and i have no words for it
and most days,
i can ignore it
but some days
there are no poems
there is only the fire
the longing left behind
the fingerprints of wind on my face
maybe one day
the longing
will move into someone else’s heart
put a ‘for sale’ sign in mine
could you, please,
slow
down?
listen to your heart.
drum.
hummingbird.
house.
wildflower garden, unkempt
but growing.
this is who you are.
wild and messy,
beautiful and
free.
i am every word i have dared to utter and i am every word i have kept quiet
i am my heart and the courage it needs to beat again and again
i am every time i have said ‘i love you’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘i am sorry’
and i am every poem i have read and listened to and watched
i am the flowers you planted in my heart when you smiled
i am alive
i am the coffee my mother brews
(i no longer brew it myself.
i got burned once by the flame and no longer use matches.)
which is to say, i am afraid
(of fire. of burning. of breaking.)
i have forgotten to be brave
(have i?)
remind me of the courage in fire
(my heart.)
the light
the warmth
love.
(they are worth the burns.)
Gaby Comprés Jun 12
maybe one day
i will not have to write you this poem—
how many times have i started to write it only to give up?
maybe the hurt and silence
will stop becoming the bridge we cross every morning
just to say hello
let us burn it
build a new one out of coffee mugs and sunrises
and everything that is a new beginning
i will let go of my pride
my silent anger
lose this game
of indifference and silence
i have never wanted to win
every morning
i walk into this space:
a classroom.
i turn on the lights,
open cabinets,
set the tables
with paper and pencil.
i tell myself that i will teach you what i know,
which is not much.
i read you stories, tell you about poetry
and i let you play.
in exchange,
you teach me what you know:
to laugh at myself, to play,
to look at the world around me
and take notice of it.
every now and then i wonder,
who is the teacher?
is it me
or
is it you?
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