We stayed up till two am writing poetry, each syllable carefully chosen
as I dissected any metaphors I came across along the way. They call us sensitive,
the dreamers who lack personal experience but make up for it in heart.
I’ve written about sex so much one might call me a whore when in reality,
I’m the biggest virgin you’ll ever meet. We fell for our sins,
lusted for the day we could reenact those deeds we only so dared to write about.
Each day to make up for the loneliness,
I’d write a poem in your honor,
only to delete it out of sheer embarrassment. I feel pathetic for writing out this romance,
for shitty prose could never make up for human interaction, could never make up for
the sensation of not being alone. In my head, I cough like a chain smoker when the closest
I’ve been to a cigarette is watching the men in London light them as easily as children light sparklers.
Sometimes I think ink and paper are my only friends because they’re always there,
unlike you, and they listen just as well too.
They blot up ugly words and make them sound beautiful again,
just as my sheets do as I’m crying because you called me a word I’ve never been allowed before.
I’ve stayed up till two am trying to write something that explains how often I think about
how I can’t write. No amount of tongue can seek truth anymore,
I love you in every language, every word that I come across explains nothing but the
hollow I feel in my chest. And I think the day I finally get to touch you,
I’ll break, even cracks on the surface while everything else underneath will be
* Elegant poem I found on Tumblr. Raw. Beautiful. Perfect.