What You And I Had Was Poetry
We were uninhibited and free. We were bold and spontaneous. And then we weren’t. The poem that was our life ran out of words.
We were uninhibited and free. We were bold and spontaneous. And then we weren’t. The poem that was our life ran out of words.
Sometimes, I think of you. I try not to, But memories are cruel. They surface, resurface.
I’ve loved the idea of you ever since I began to comprehend what love could truly mean.
Is it because you’re an impenetrable wall, with layers of cement and brick that bruise my unarmored entity as I try to break through?
I suppose that’s why I remember everything about you.
Know this, survivor: your battle and your struggles are valid and important, as are you, in your entirety.
You’re a mistake. There’s no way around it. We’re a mistake.
I love you in languages you don’t comprehend. You love me in a language I’m aching to understand. I love you across continents and you love me against the fabric of time.
I can’t emphasize this enough: love yourself the way you deserve to be loved.
Amongst the entangled web of our individual marriages to work, lust, love and all the other factors that keep us apart, we still manage to trace back the weathered route that led us to each other in the first place.