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You write poems of
love in the morning and
the soft fall of rain but
I can read.
I can read what you've erased
the lines you don't want us to see
I take note of these and
put your invisible words together
and read your true words.
And I see that
you write with red ink.
See, I once read somewhere that
every moment is a poem --
if you just hold it right. So
I'm trying to hold this moment right, but
there's really no formula to this,
is there?
A poet can hold these moments right,
right?
No.
A poet can't hold a moment.
He can only pass his butterfingers through it
and watch the moment fade into the past.
He tries to make it last
but nothing lasts forever, so
he makes up the rest by drawing out words from his soul
because his soul has better memory
better holding than he does,
and he knows it.
So, you see,
a poem is not a moment that was held right.
A moment,
a moment in itself
is a poem.
A poem that was seen right.
Our hearts must have been knitted together in the womb
and ripped apart at birth, but
whoever did so failed to remove every piece of yarn
because we ended up finding each other again.

You are the only one who can see past me
and I am the only one who can tell
if you're having a normal silence
or a sad silence.
Oh, I can tell.

We can read each other's souls
as easily as my father reads the Sunday morning newspaper
and we can read the pain between the lines, too
in fact, we trace it with our fingers
and feel the pain like it's our own.
Oh, we do.

We are opposite in physique and personality
but twins in values and passions, this
you wrote to me in a letter once,
and I haven't forgotten it.
Oh, I haven't.

We've wondered why we're so alike in a
completely opposite way, but now I know.
I know that the yarn is still hanging
and we are still being stitched back together
because one day, we'll end up right back from where we came from.
And we'll be doing the exact same thing.
Oh, we will.
A poem for my best friend. You know who you are.
Don't
fall in love with her.
For you will both crash
and I promise, you will burn, for

She is the girl with too many wounds
the ones even an ocean of your love can't heal.
She is the girl with scars on her knees
because she tried taking leaps of faith far too many times,
waiting for someone to catch her
but they never did.

She is the girl who will never be with you
even if she is holding your hand
and your fingers are wrapped around her shoulders
and her neck is resting on your chest for
she will always be atop an asteroid
trying to catch moon-tears
because she knows that the moon weeps for her.

She is the girl who won't tell you she loves you
even if you tell her a hundred times and look at her
with all the longing you can muster
because she knows how words can be.
Some words
are only said to fill in the empty silence.

She is the girl who is hard to dance with
because she refuses to be led across the dance floor
she's already been led,
many, many times
and she always ended up
with floor burns, scrapes and sprains.

She is the girl with pimples
not enough to cover her face
but enough to let you know how far into the night she stays awake
writing poetry about 'you'
she's written so many poems about 'you'
because her hands won't stop moving
her mind won't stop weaving and I promise,
you wouldn't want her to write about you.

She is the girl with broken, dead bones
the girl who's seen too many deserts
climbed too many mountains
but she never reached the top or
came to the end of the endless stretch of yellow, but
she can tell you a lot about oases.

So before you even think
of falling in love with her, I warn you,
don't.
Do whatever else you want just
don't
fall in love


with me.

— The End —