Jan 2019
Poetry is hard to write when you have no more words to describe whatever you call heartbreak. At some point, the feeling of your heart residing in your stomach is no longer an anomaly. It's nothing. It's the full feeling that makes you feel sick and it's the choking feeling that comes at night before you brush your teeth. The sadness washes your face for you and tucks you into bed so you can focus on how heavy your heart really is.
It becomes your caretaker, in a sense. Because when you notice that your eyes have more trouble staying open than usual, sadness swoops in and whispers "hello, I'm always ready to help you sleep. I've been waiting."
And so all of the sudden you sleep so soundly, so heavily, that not even your dreams visit you. Your alarm doesn't crack open your eyes, the birds don't make enough noise to shake you from your own nest.
And when you have no one to drag you from under the covers, each day seems a little more daunting than the last. The love that you've been holding like a breath starts to stain the mattress beneath you and spreads into the springs, leaving a stench that can be similar to sadness, but sweeter.
When he leaves (and he will) this stench will permeate your own skin. He'll leave on a bright and clear morning with a suitcase full of your sacrifices. He'll load in on the plane and then lose it at the baggage claim. People will ask how they can help and he will say "don't worry, it's nothing I can't replace." And you will feel the exact moment he erases you from his being.
It'll feel like ice, but also like a searing fire, right through the middle of your body. And all he'll feel is a sense of freedom and a slight worry that maybe he left something important behind.
Love is like that. So filling and encompassing when it doesn't need to be, and so vacant when it really counts.
And it really counts when you come back to the place you thought your love kept up residence. It counts when you walk into your room and don't smell the same sweetness you remember. It counts when you've been craving love for weeks and return to find nothing.
Seeking salvation in a person is the most foolish decision someone in love can make. It's the downfall of soft-hearted people who think their person-hood is confirmed by how much of themselves they've put in the gaps of those they adore. And they watch them walk away with that bit of themselves.
Sometimes they'll walk close enough to one of these people that their body tenses, wants to ****** the piece back, but it's been so long that the piece has grown into the person they once were growing with. And it's such a feeling of emptiness and tenderness that it's hard to discern whether it's regret they're swallowing or a longing for the past.
In any case, poetry comes easier to write to those who have enough sadness to last three lifetimes.
It becomes your caretaker, in a sense. Because when you notice that your eyes have more trouble staying open than usual, sadness swoops in and whispers "hello, I'm always ready to help you sleep. I've been waiting."
And so all of the sudden you sleep so soundly, so heavily, that not even your dreams visit you. Your alarm doesn't crack open your eyes, the birds don't make enough noise to shake you from your own nest.
And when you have no one to drag you from under the covers, each day seems a little more daunting than the last. The love that you've been holding like a breath starts to stain the mattress beneath you and spreads into the springs, leaving a stench that can be similar to sadness, but sweeter.
When he leaves (and he will) this stench will permeate your own skin. He'll leave on a bright and clear morning with a suitcase full of your sacrifices. He'll load in on the plane and then lose it at the baggage claim. People will ask how they can help and he will say "don't worry, it's nothing I can't replace." And you will feel the exact moment he erases you from his being.
It'll feel like ice, but also like a searing fire, right through the middle of your body. And all he'll feel is a sense of freedom and a slight worry that maybe he left something important behind.
Love is like that. So filling and encompassing when it doesn't need to be, and so vacant when it really counts.
And it really counts when you come back to the place you thought your love kept up residence. It counts when you walk into your room and don't smell the same sweetness you remember. It counts when you've been craving love for weeks and return to find nothing.
Seeking salvation in a person is the most foolish decision someone in love can make. It's the downfall of soft-hearted people who think their person-hood is confirmed by how much of themselves they've put in the gaps of those they adore. And they watch them walk away with that bit of themselves.
Sometimes they'll walk close enough to one of these people that their body tenses, wants to ****** the piece back, but it's been so long that the piece has grown into the person they once were growing with. And it's such a feeling of emptiness and tenderness that it's hard to discern whether it's regret they're swallowing or a longing for the past.
In any case, poetry comes easier to write to those who have enough sadness to last three lifetimes.
