i want to write you something that holds no pretenses. as if before what i’ve written were false and substantial, but now i want it raw. i want it certain. i want you to know that the unspoken doesn’t mean i’ve lost my will to love you each and everyday. i want you to know that my silence isn’t but, a tone with restless i love you’s because it is; and because i do. there is nothing more consumable and true when those three words don’t come out enough. but when it’s you, it is.
you are no star, no moon, no poetic agenda, you are only human. and with every human that you are, i’ve accepted. with every human that you are, i’ve loved.
senseless; this feeling of missing you as though my mind can’t set on a single flower. everyday that i spend is another one of my heartaches because i can’t and never will be able to see the dawn that rises before your eyes and the moon setting beneath the palm of your hand. you’ve taught me how to love life; and live with love through the piece of me that sits across a devil’s advocate; for she sacrificed a thousand gentle whispers for lionhearted roars that she can’t ever take back. but at least she finally found her miracle.
i never learn but i always listen to you, i suppose. since you’re my only person; the only one i’ll ever allow to break my heart a million times more. i cry at the thought of never seeing you again, but at least that one time was enough, it’s everything i needed to fall in love with you overtime & again and again.
and to you do i deem another one of these elongated rambles of words bowed down to us by gorgeous sundancers. dear true love, is it painful— that you fell from heaven carrying a satin piece of you coating me in your tempting warmth? i wish it weren’t; your response to pain is not what lavishes you to a perfect sunbeam but rather an all-knowing traveller. countless of letters have been shipped down from the bounty to your lost paradise; missing you, as if the clouds have taken you in the fastest they possibly could. now i would never understand how it feels to be held in close proximity again; with tenderness adjacent to a fairy’s whisper. but this open letter allows you to realise of the poetry living within your bones. that no matter how sturdy it takes for the fragility to break through, there will always be love residing. from me, in you. i’ll be waiting in mornings, holding the moon on my hand, standing on the wild grand on the universe that we’ll never compare to. but trust me, that’s what you are to me. you’re on top of everything else that comes to live and breathe.
if there was one thing i could not give up to a certain amount— you’d guess it. it’s you. series of cadences employ themselves above the halos fantastically wrung around my neck. as the tears plummeted, wishing they were any more than the slightest bit useful during this time; they eventually stopped. sunlight has finally found a neighborhood down below corpse-drowned eyelashes only because you came back; in a dream of course. then i knew, giving my life up is like doing the same to you; which i can never foresee to do one way or another. oh lover, you’d always be worth the wait.
my dear redeemer, my hands are calloused at the hold of my headphones that touch my thigh as i sit beside clouds. when your hums tear my ears closely i fall to a world where my head whirls profusely awaking against sycamore trees with the breeze perfuming a scarlet colossal scenery. a paradise bringing me afloat a million souls as i am agile to wavering honey dust. you have contained me in a shell longing for love, etude, solace and turmoil as they wash down my drain but through the cold, i find you still. the windows are hollow, even though it blossoms for sunlight i hear such cynosures in my earplugs. you are my music. where comets are yonder, that’s where you are.
happy birthday starlight.
perhaps my love was a poem, where the words would stick to the sky like eminent stardust from heaven’s collision with the hearty gemini constellation feebly wandering in spiral distances. my hostile mind fastens itself to the star; in even ever so far away, its home has been discovered. maybe love was a poem and i am a poet, an artist, astronomer, anything i wish i was; because it is he, the star that wheels my nightsky and tints it with a foamy stinge of watercolour, that avows my heart to its purpose. — to love.
i am the words frail from the depths of his wishes. the ink blots to the edge of my skin; and whispers the tune of the lyric that swells and unlocks his heart. it is with him that i am whole, it is with his insanely gorgeous mind that i am adjoined to a poem that births a star.
my poet, my sweet, he is an artist of every kind; i am just a word and i will only fade to stardust but the love he sees is what he writes, it is what i live to be. i adore him and the magic of his undying passion that will never make his art fall.