I read somewhere that names Fix things in place like pins And that to be nameless is to be Free.
There are some things in this world which can’t be spoken Can’t be captured Can’t be named. As artists, As human beings, They call us An unstoppable force An indefinable drive Onward- That deep tug in the center of your chest The gnawing need to create. They are things we chase Things we aspire to Things we even worship sometimes Writing long into the night Carving wood and clay and bone On our knees in the dark Smearing paint, desperate to understand Desperate to make something Half as beautiful as what we Feel. Since we awoke as a race We have created In service of only that drive Only that obsession Half awe and half hubris Half joy and half shame Half triumph and half Defeat- The expression of something Inexpressible The naming of something Too sacred for language. We know we can never arrive We can only Search And the search is the reason For our cities and our novels and our symphonies An aching search A humble search A sweet journey whose end- No matter how much we pretend otherwise- Is only Death.
You are like that.
I’ve tried for hundreds of pages To explain myself To express my love and longing but You Are like a thousand of those unnameable things. I think you might be Made of them Somehow. I think they live in your skin and your bones and the timbre of your voice. I can write all day About the magnetic beauty I see in you About the way you make me feel And list the things I love about you But it always feels Insufficient Always as if I am writing around something Bigger Something with no words to describe it- None that even Come close. As if I can only write about what you do Not what you are Because what you are is too vast For thought. I write as though I have pressed my hands to glass Trying to sing to you through it But you are on The other side- Even the most beautiful art Even the sweetest music Even the most tender poetry Could not pierce deeply enough Would be a disservice and a reduction Would fall hopelessly short Of what you really are And how you really move me.
I try to tell you why I love you I try to tell you How. I know you wonder sometimes I know you wonder if I only love Things about you Things I could find in others. I try to explain but it’s like My thoughts catch in my throat And fall like shadows on the floor- So hopelessly inadequate.
I search and search I sit up nights Trying to find the words Trying to make the words But there are none Not because you are ordinary but because you are Unnameable. What I love in you is deeper than reason Deeper than touch Deeper than ideas or memories or the little moments when I stop and gaze at you Transfixed. I love you in a way that reminds me That we are not just flesh and blood Because if we were there would be a word for what in me Falls to its knees at your feet And what in you Makes me want to build things with my hands And never stop
And that is Maddeningly All I can say Because although I think by now I may have truly tried Them all,
“To love another person is to see the face of god.” -Victor Hugo