Today, I write for you.
I poured myself as an ink
and used it to put my feelings
into words I wish you’d read.
Last night I waited until twelve
counting down for the moment
we were supposed to celebrate
together. But as I lay wide awake
at two in the morning
on my sea of sheets,
I felt the chills
of a desolate January night
which was made lonelier
and colder
because you’ve put out the light.
So today, I write for you
even though I am so scared.
Because each time I transform
my emotions into words,
the memories come
like crashing waves.
Still, I gave in and
let myself write for you
although it is a very painful thing to do.
I took out the notebook
with dedications you’ve never knew
and made love with words
because I couldn’t do it with you.
Darling, you are
my bittersweet muse
and I let it take over
even just for today.
I let the poetry
drift through my veins
and created poems
in a melancholic, agonizing haze.
I wrote you
a long love letter
and talked about our memories
and promises,
your beauty,
strength,
and sweetness,
my enduring love
and unyielding hope
and fiery passions.
Honey, I tried to write them all;
but words are not enough
for the magnitude of my devotion.
Today as I write for you,
I let myself take
a glimpse at your photos.
And as always, I felt
a painful pang in my heart
When I see you hold her hand.
So tonight, my love,
let me write for you
these words I’m not even sure
if you will ever read.
But dearest, I’d cut my skin
and open my veins for ink
to write you
these poems
and songs
and letters
and stories
as I cry myself to sleep.
— ibcn
01.15.15