This is where communication fails. Overcomes us. We were built to withstand so much pain. Funny how we can’t talk. Words are no good here. They turn into dusted civilizations as soon as they touch our lips. They collapse. And we collapse into each other where words don’t need to be spoken.
I am writing these words for you because you need them.
I am writing these words for me because I need them.
When I hold you close sometimes and kiss your forehead, run my hands through your hair, you sigh in pleasure like you just took a bite into warm bread. How lovely to be that butter.
When I think about you, I think about you in poetry.
My thoughts expand with you; give me language. Jeanette Winterson wrote, ““A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers – a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place.” This is how I feel about you—that I never really found myself until knowing you. Before, I was just hiding myself between pages buried in books. You give my words freedom.
When you feel I can feel it like a tornado. How nice it is to know I am not the only storm in a sea of lukewarm. I can almost hear your thoughts beating against you, clawing, tearing. I have the same scars, and if I could turn my skin inside out to prove it I would. You are not so alone as you think.
It seems words are failing me again. I hope I find them, because I think I’ll need them before this is all said and done. I guess I will keep thinking of you in truncated thoughts, the tough language of poetry, while planning my getaway. Not from you, but to you; to a place where happiness melts over you like butter over warm bread—and, sighs and sighs and sighs of contentedness.