Sep 2014
Somebody very sweet told me tonight:
"You are my foreign poetry. Sugar to my salty tongue. Candies to my bitter lungs. Blushes to my cold cheeks. A foreign lilac with her own ways and beauty. At first I was afraid to fall in love with you because you are a poet, and I am not. I was shy about my ordinary words, which are perhaps nothing to your compelling spells and admirable phrases. I like your choice of words, and I like your beauty. You smell like a foreign moon, from an unknown time and space, and yet your universe is the same as mine. You own the same fate as I do, as a human. And your memories are just too enthralling for an ordinary human like me to understand. You move with speed. You speak with tact. And your sincerity is even more ****** than you are. A sweet foreign poem I had never imagined trying to understand, especially with a wounded heart, that had been slit open by a thousand swords. You are too chaste and yet tempting to me, as a foreigner. And your foreign idioms, sometimes, just surprise me. And your poetic fervour. My nightmares are gone in your presence. My hands are not cold, and so my blood flows again. My heart thrills whenever I am about to see you, and yet I cannot bring myself to see you too much, because I am afraid I will crush you. You are like a fragile little rose to me. A lyrical song that shall never fade, but too fades on a certain day. I am too scared that this will end, just like the last (one) did. I do not want you to end. I do not want our story to end whatever befalls us. And so it is safest for us not to begin anything. Because I am afraid these beautiful things shall just rot and die away--like they usually do. I cannot write poems and yet you made me write one. If only I'd ever had dreams like you do; or if I could dream of anything at all, my dreams would be about you. Because you made me see, with your own poetic ways, what life means and the very being I am meant to be. But I am too far from you; I am with thee in sight and yet cannot reach thy heart. I am afraid such a precious little piece shall be broken when mine. So I shan't ever wish to break it. Yet one thing I shall hold thee to know; none has ever filled it like you have. You filled it with love when it cried. You fed it and lived with it and cherished it. You helped it up when it fell. And none of these world's beauties are like yours; warm and shiny and tantalising and maliciously foreign. Ah, nothing like I've ever seen before. Not one, Estefannia."
"You are my foreign poetry. Sugar to my salty tongue. Candies to my bitter lungs. Blushes to my cold cheeks. A foreign lilac with her own ways and beauty. At first I was afraid to fall in love with you because you are a poet, and I am not. I was shy about my ordinary words, which are perhaps nothing to your compelling spells and admirable phrases. I like your choice of words, and I like your beauty. You smell like a foreign moon, from an unknown time and space, and yet your universe is the same as mine. You own the same fate as I do, as a human. And your memories are just too enthralling for an ordinary human like me to understand. You move with speed. You speak with tact. And your sincerity is even more ****** than you are. A sweet foreign poem I had never imagined trying to understand, especially with a wounded heart, that had been slit open by a thousand swords. You are too chaste and yet tempting to me, as a foreigner. And your foreign idioms, sometimes, just surprise me. And your poetic fervour. My nightmares are gone in your presence. My hands are not cold, and so my blood flows again. My heart thrills whenever I am about to see you, and yet I cannot bring myself to see you too much, because I am afraid I will crush you. You are like a fragile little rose to me. A lyrical song that shall never fade, but too fades on a certain day. I am too scared that this will end, just like the last (one) did. I do not want you to end. I do not want our story to end whatever befalls us. And so it is safest for us not to begin anything. Because I am afraid these beautiful things shall just rot and die away--like they usually do. I cannot write poems and yet you made me write one. If only I'd ever had dreams like you do; or if I could dream of anything at all, my dreams would be about you. Because you made me see, with your own poetic ways, what life means and the very being I am meant to be. But I am too far from you; I am with thee in sight and yet cannot reach thy heart. I am afraid such a precious little piece shall be broken when mine. So I shan't ever wish to break it. Yet one thing I shall hold thee to know; none has ever filled it like you have. You filled it with love when it cried. You fed it and lived with it and cherished it. You helped it up when it fell. And none of these world's beauties are like yours; warm and shiny and tantalising and maliciously foreign. Ah, nothing like I've ever seen before. Not one, Estefannia."
