In bed, you held me and asked, “You’re going to write about this, aren’t you?”
And when one gets tangled in the sheets and metaphors of a poet, it’s a fair question.
You know what I have written before.
The way I weave together our memories like an unfinished obituary.
Leave traces of last times, first times, one more times throughout word documents.
Post-its to remind myself why I keep coming back to write one more chapter.
You have every reason to believe I would write that night into another elegy.
But I told you I wouldn’t.
I promised you I wouldn’t.
And this is not about that night.
Because there are some moments that even the softest tongue can never do justice.
Moments I never dare to expose for the sake of art,
for the sake of healing,
for the sake of feeling like I’m doing something with all this heavy.
This is not my escapism.
This is my honesty.
You are the shot of whisky that turns my throat from a body part to a cathedral.
I am broken sparrow who flies back to your window because I heard you like my singing.
You are land mines of potential.
I am not afraid of the explosion.
You think I will write about that night,
But all I can think of is your stardust eyes.
I run out of words when they stare back into mine.
You speak in tailspin.
But our fingers have always known when to be quiet.
You, a lone wolf.
I, the full moon.
I choose to shine when you need your path illuminated.
I don’t always glow bright enough.
You don’t always howl loud enough .
But we were meant to find ourselves in this mess,
this heart break and heart broken.
Maybe we are both bleeding for a purpose.
Make handmade tourniquet out of our laughter .
It can be so easy sometimes.
When you stop thinking,
And I stop dreaming.
And we sit and laugh,
Let our fingers do the speaking.
I will not write that night.
But I will tell the story of you.
The same way the bullfrogs coo under an August sky,
Slowly and deeply,
And when the rest of the world goes to sleep.