For those who don't know it, I tend to fall in love hard and I tend to do it quickly. Whether it be platonically or romantically, I give it my all until it wears me thin and then some. I spend hours awake thinking about the people I love in my life and what kind of role I play in theirs, and it often leaves me with scattered thoughts that I can't piece together. This poem is a reflection of that in which I jump from different times with different thoughts, usually all relating back to the people I love in one way or another.
. . .
It's 2:56 a.m.
and I can't sleep.
Being wrapped up
in familiar sheets
that smell a lot like
lemons to me
is not comforting.
My mind is running laps
around my exhilarated heart
hoping to find a way
to pull you in to hold your hand.
I want to hold your hand.
I want to fight for this,
to fight for us,
for you,
for me,
for everything, we can become.
I want to fight because fighting
until my last breath has been taken
for someone like you,
even if it doesn't work,
seems so much better
than watching you walk away.
My dear,
you are the inspiration
behind the words I write.
You could tell me that
the Underworld is a lot like
drowning,
but that you'd like to try it anyways
and I swear to the Gods,
I'd follow you
every step of the way
so that you wouldn't have
to fight your demons
alone.
It is 3:01 a.m.
and no one dreams
about you more than I do.
I often dream about
words becoming
real life surgeons
who are able to mend
the broken pieces
back to our fragile hearts.
I know for a fact that if a surgeon
came to my home,
pounding on my damn door
and screaming about how
they can fix my shattered parts,
I'd redirect them to your own
broken heart
because I long to see
your smile.
I'd tell them that your heart
is singing upbeat songs
with different meanings
in hopes someone
will understand
and that your heart
wants to sing the blues
but doesn't quite know how yet.
I'd tell the surgeon to leave
a small part of you
broken,
damaged,
undefined
because scarred hearts
and scattered brains
are what makes us human.
it's 3:37 a.m.
and sometimes
I write to feel the pen
scratching on looseleaf.
It is a reminder that here,
in every moment,
my history is being written.
And if I were to write a book
they'd see your name
over
and over
and over again,
They'd see your name and
they'd hear the words you
speak to me during
midnight phone calls.
Your name would rest
forever in their own minds
reminding them that
love is so wonderful.
Oh, Gods,
is our love wonderful.
And if I wrote a book,
I'd write about the quiet people.
I was alone and quiet.
I think people often times forget
that quiet people can still hear you speak,
we can hear you in a different sort of way.
we can hear the cracks in your voice
when you speak about someone
who use to mean a lot to you.
We can hear the way you hesitate
before you casually announce the name
of someone who broke you.
We can hear the healing in your laughter,
sweet,
but not put together quite yet.
I am an observer of the Earth,
I can hear your silence,
and I understand.
I think most importantly is
that it's 2:56 a.m.
and I can't believe how much
I love you.
If I were to die before you,
I would crawl my way
through the pits of the Underworld,
my knuckles bloodied and bruising,
and I would make my way to Olympus
and tell the Gods
that They can't have you.
You are my home.
You are the only home
I've ever known
and I will go to the
end of the galaxy
protecting the stars that you hung.
