By now, you have probably read a handful of warnings about falling in love with writers. About how they can take you to the brightest moons or bury you to the core of the earth just by spilling their ink. About how they can forget about mundane things such as your anniversary or what time they should pick you up at work. But they remember the most intricate details such as how your freckles align on your nose or how you stir your coffee when you’re too nervous to start the day. You must have an idea about how they can build a pedestal for you to step on as if you were born to be glorified. Yet the moment you break their hearts they will write you so cruel, the history will remember your name as synonymous to tragedy. Don’t fall in love with writers, they always say. As if your life depends on it.
By the time you meet me, you will know right away that words are my way of becoming. You will sense it by the way I phrase my thoughts or how my eyes light up when talking about strange but fascinating ideas such as alternate universes or the other side. I will reference quotations from the books which pages I rummaged on every single night that I couldn’t sleep and share to you my theories about the lives of my favorite characters as if they are real. I will hold your hands and take you to bookstores and coffee shops and look at you as if you are the loveliest view. I will watch the sunset with you and listen to the sound of the waves crashing to the shore and I will stargaze with you as I confess all the wishes that I only whisper to every constellation. And I will write to you. My text messages will be like love letters that are meant to translate my heartbeats. I will whisper poetry in between our calls. And I will write for you, write about you, write like you are the destination to my unending journey.
By the moment you feel like maybe, just maybe, you are falling for me, will you run away? Will you recall every warning that you have ever read and cringe by the thought of becoming a poem? Will you struggle to break free from my embrace for you are afraid that I will strangle you when the time comes that you decide you don’t want me anymore? Will you look at my love as a hurricane and run for shelter elsewhere because you are terrified of drowning? Or will you welcome my kisses and surrender to my every touch because you don’t want to let go of this feeling? Will you hold me like you will never drop me? Will you put your arms around me and protect the world that I created for myself from the harsh bits of reality? Will you read my words over and over again, memorize every line, embed every sentence in your mind and bury them in your heart like precious treasures that others don’t have the right to get hold of?
If you are going to fall for me, fall not for the flowery meadow that I grow using my proses but for the way I caress your skin just to ease your tiredness. If you are going to stay, stay not because of how I paint you with the most vibrant words but because of how I understand you and accept you beyond all your flaws and imperfections. If you are going to hold me, hold me not because of the warmth that the blanket of my sonnets that can give you but because of the comfort that my presence can cause you even if we are surrounded by silence.
Forget all the warnings that you have ever read about not falling in love with a writer and love me. Love me not because of how words anchor me to myself but because I am human who deserves to receive love and who was born yearning to give it away just like everyone else. Love me as I love you and make me realize that the reality of you and I is so much greater than all the universes that I have penned down, combined. Love me without words. And we will be enough. We will be enough.