it’s 2am and i haven’t slept. there are things i want to tell you, but i don’t know how to put them into words. i could say i’ve always cried about you in the shower, but that won’t suffice. so here…. i have this for you.
i remember how overwhelming loving you was, as i still haven’t stopped - at least not fully and i don’t know if i ever will.
you let me see the parts of you that scared you, and i held them in my hands like something holy. i told you i loved every inch. i wasn’t lying.
you touched me so softly, it sent shockwaves through all the places i had learned to be numb.
your love is ruinous. it is frantic and aching and has sharp, biting edges. it moves through me like wildfire. it is relentless.
i write about impossible things. boiling constellations into tea, unspooling time like thread, growing old with you. i rewrite the endings where i get to keep you.
i want to press my lips to every tear you’ve ever cried and tell you “look, even sorrow can bloom into something soft.”
there was something bright in me once. something golden, something whole. i think you saw it before i did.
love has never been quiet for me. it has always arrived like a storm, and you were the loudest of them all.
you touched me so softly it ached. like my body didn’t know how to receive something that didn’t hurt.
you think that only have pretty words for everyone else, but mostly i write about impossible versions of myself. ones that never lost you.
your love made me feel like an animal. raw and reckless, desperate to prove i needed you more. but you said i love you more, and i wanted to tear through my own skin because you couldn’t. you couldn’t.
there is a version of us somewhere that never got lost. i hope they are happy - i hope they are home.
