This Is How You Write About Love

Your screen is blank. Your mind is blurred and Love is the most powerful drug of all. You heard it in some YouTube video; it seems safe enough. It’s the high that feels like everything is beautiful and this moment is a gift from the universe. And the comedown. The deep, heavy sorrow sitting in your chest. Your ribs cracking, your lungs weak. Desperately hanging on to the thought of a smile that brings you to life and makes you want to thank God or something.

I remember when you smiled at me. And I said “hi” six times in a row. It was the only word I could think of. You were just so fucking beautiful.

And you don’t know how to write what happens next. And you imagine all the hours you’ll spend slaving over this piece. The many weeks you’ll spend avoiding it altogether. Afraid that no one will understand. And then she’d smile and you’d save the world.

Remember when the pain was like finding dead bodies. Skinless and bleeding and hanging from trees. And it ran too deep to talk about. And it ran too deep to feel all at once. You would find it hiding in the bathroom sink. And in your veins ready to explode. Your mind spinning with all the times they said it wasn’t your fault. And late at night was when it got bad. And late at night was when you wrote about it.

And I forgot about the pain that night as we watched the sun go down. And the stars shining over us. And the sunrise in the morning when you said that was the East. I never knew that before.

Remember saying goodnight at 8AM. Opening your journal to write: What the fuck just happened?

This love uncovers hidden corners of your mind as you fall into the unknown. The mysterious energy forcing you to face every inch of yourself. Revealing every strand of beauty and grace; unleashing the darkness all at once. An explosion of everything pain and secrets. Thick walls and broken windows. Shattered glass falls on the floor. Winter air floods my bedroom as I try to breathe.

I remember when you were the summer sky. I’d get so lost watching you exist. Embracing the blur and you were everything. The rain in late September. My coffee on Sunday morning. The front seat of my father’s car.

You’re standing at the bottom of Mt. Everest searching your soul for the courage to climb. Thousands of steps ahead and the oxygen is scarce. Or maybe you’re just nervous. You’ve no idea how to begin. Thinking of that night in August. Your denim shorts and boho headband. The pink journal laying next to you when she asked about your writing. Entering each other’s worlds. The two of you became soaked in the summer night, the warm darkness and the birth of young love. Ceaseless conversations while everybody slept. The mosquitoes eating her legs all night and she still stayed. Just so she could talk with you.

And I hate the way I disappeared that winter. The cold air crept into my veins; the numbing chill ran so deep I couldn’t love you.

Blink and three years pass. And now you are a writer. Too busy to miss her like you used to. When you’d feel it in your chest. Burning. And you’re still in love and pain and peace. You think about her every time it rains. And when you hear the music she loves. And when you write about her. And sometimes everything is perfect and she calls you everyday. And then she disappears and you deeply regret that winter when you thought you didn’t care. So you start writing. Remember to allow yourself to be human; to be crazy and pathetic and in love. To keep trying because you’re not afraid anymore. Revise until the words are perfect. Beautifully chaotic. The revelation of a naked soul.

I feel it most when it rains. the quiet grey skies, your favorite kind of weather. and im alone and I’m writing. thinking of the way I can still look at you and lose myself somewhere between dreams and reality. And everything is beautiful and I’m alive and god is real. Being hit by the sweet buzz of emotion. falling too fast to breathe and tumbling softly anyway. my body aches from the adrenaline.

Stare blankly at the page. There’s so much more to say and feel but you’re frozen. Fall into using cliches because they fit the puzzle. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. This god-like savior, the one that makes everything better. The one you’d wait a lifetime for because she’s worth it. The empty sayings about love feel perfect and it’s so disappointing. Trying to be original and you’re getting overwhelmed. You must allow yourself to sit. Surrender your heart. Become consumed with every ounce of pain, every drop of bliss, and let it go.

And we’ve moved on but I still have to write about us. And sometimes I miss waiting for you on the front steps. Drawing sailboats in sidewalk chalk. Showing you how to sail across the wind. It’s embarrassing to think that was me flirting. And I loved the smell of your hair in the afternoons when you were holding me. So beautifully tucked into our lives the way my dad used to tuck me in bed. You’re like a little burrito, he’d say. And I’ve stayed up all night writing. I hear the birds wake up at 4am and it’s the little things. Taking selfies on beanbag chairs. Watching movies at your place. And I don’t care that I’m aloof sometimes and i don’t care that I’ve been hurt before. And I don’t care that we may never be. and I know I’m not even close to getting this perfect but I don’t think it matters anyway. This is how you write about love. Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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