I am a writer. People expect me to be good at being vocal with my feelings. But, in your presence, my words fail me.
My sentences come in stuttered breaths and hiccuped thoughts. But then you kiss me in the middle of the sentence. And before I knew it, we’re forming fragments with our own puzzle pieces. You kiss me and the words get caught in my throat. I kiss you back so you can swallow what I’ve left unsaid. When you touch me, it is as though you are tracing the red and blue lines of a paper, writing endless poems against my skin.
You, my love, are still the best thing that’s happening to me. And the worst thing that’s happened to my writing.
When I am writing you, I forget the very act of writing. Instead, I feel like I am flying. I am unafraid in my truest form.
As I write, I remember the way your eyes curve into half moons when you laugh. I don’t know how to describe them with words. I can only say they are a rare kind of beauty, the kind a person can only see once in this life. I think about your smile, all teeth and gums, your nose scrunching and forming wrinkles in the corner of your eyes. You really are quite the charmer, darling.
I am in with love you. Completely. Without a shred of doubt in my body. And our love— I watch it grow in our most subtle, quite moments.
Sometimes, it’s when you call. The way you still make me feel like a giddy school girl answering a phone call from her crush. I still get all these teenage, hormonal butterflies erupting from the pit of my stomach. When we eat at fancy diners. The way you still hold my hand like you’re showing me off to everybody else. When you brush the hair off my face or tuck a strand of my hair behind my ears. The way you pay attention to the tiny details.
Or when we’re just talking and it’s been a long day at school. The way you listen to my stories and my worries. The way you calm me down when things get rough.
I tell you I love talking and hate it, at the same time. You lend your ears to me, nonetheless. You tell me, you love the way my voice sounds when I’m starting to get excited or grumpy. And that you can’t tell them apart at times. So I talk to you about death, or how obsessed I am with the pursuit for genuine happiness, or the possibility of a parallel universe. You see, I do love talking and I love talking to you.
You rarely say the words “I love you” so you just tell me to bring an umbrella when it’s raining outside. Put a sweater on if you’re going out. It’s windy, you say. You tell me to get fifteen more minutes of sleep even if it means I’ll be late for class, to not skip meals and to drink plenty of water. You even slip in another bottle of water just to make sure I do. You never tell me outright that you love me but I know you do, anyway.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re both bad at words. And when I’m with you, my mouth could hardly articulate that my heart badly wants to say it loves you. And I guess, that’s okay because I know you do. In the way you hold my hand, in the way you look at me, I know.
I am a writer but, in your presence, my words fail me. I am a writer; not a traveler. But your love takes me to places and perhaps, it is why I haven’t been able to articulate anything since because your affection has left me speechless.