Will falling in love ever feel like peace?
An age-old question asked by souls both distant and wide...
A simple phrase or a simple look will make the heart flutter. when casual hellos turn into soft-spoken good mornings, all I can do is picture our future. When the sun and the moon take turns dancing over a glistening blue sea, all I hear are the echoes of you calling out my name. We speak with words of intention, of inspiration, manuscripts of untold inhumane thoughts soaked in the pain of craving what we do not yet have for it is the dream of many. You possess details I never knew someone could have, your kindness, your eyes- maybe I'm thinking too much... oh but how your smile is so reassuring; how your hair flows just like nature's wind intended it to. And although you are here, how long will you stay? for people tend to confess their sins in the presence of a dream.
We are bound neither by blood nor desire yet your hands are the ones I'd hold till death. Your mind resembles that of abstract art, without structure, without measure and the mercy of pain to my soul. Because of this I can't help but want to hurt myself more in order to gain more of you and we might not be bound by blood or desire but in this moment I am bound by the concept of your mind fixing mine. I know I need to move on and heal but sometimes, I believe that even for just a second, being with you would completely heal me. even my once seemingly endless thoughts became quiet when we were together, the loud thunderstorm that used to bare the walls of my mind became still and calm when I heard your laugh and felt your smile. this is what I call love. written on bathroom stalls and sung about alongside a melody; it's in pictures and in beauty. it's in the way we speak and the way we think, and it's in the flow of a river and the crashing of a wave... this is what I call love.
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wonder
why don’t they teach us this in school? how to live with ourselves the same way other people can, to talk so much and so little about the same topic or to love them and tell them. We grow up believing we are strange and different if we aren’t like everyone else, that whoever or whatever is clawing inside can never come out because that would be too much for the world. Too “poetic” too “real” too “loud” or too “unrealistic” because whether we like it or not there will never be enough room for more than one interesting person in this god-forsaken world; but as the days get shorter and the pain lingers a little longer; where quiet yet sinful prayers sing and where the children learn to harmonise, somehow I start to wish. I wish I said all the things I was too scared to say and I wish I was kinder. I wish I took breaths slower and I wish I didn’t let it go that deep...How can you bear it? for it has ended me many times over, left me with scars as proof that I am paying for the sins I commit- yet I stay put. rotting away, so that when death stops by he doesn’t see much change, for I deserve what I get. I wonder what’s wrong with me... Tears spilling like a river from lonely, aged eyes, I pause and start to understand why the rain smells so peaceful before it falls, why people hide under store roofs from the blaring sun and how strangers look at each other with such love and understanding even though their name doesn't ring a bell. Some would say that this kind of humanity makes bones ache, and some call it poetry, simply words strung together to make the heart smile, that they roll on tongues and run off fingers smoother than water; others say it's pointless, and spend their time shielded away to heal their salt-covered wounds; but some understand. we are afraid of being stained with feelings, afraid of being stamped with the things going on inside of us because it makes us too vulnerable. emotions smeared in such a way that they describe the feelings we cannot yet say. I wonder what’s wrong with me… And with that, I sink into my own silence because the type of silence that absorbed the rest of the world was always a spoke the loudest. Boring days, an unknown future, and sore eyes make the days pass but nothing changes and no one learns. I wonder where I could've been if I lived in the moment more if I'd spent more mornings making bouquets out of the same flowers tired dads would mow away whilst wrinkling their noses at the weeds, and I wonder when the awe of the day to day faded away and when we stopped believing in our ability to make other people smile, for it is what we were made for; even in illness or in fear, we are made for each other. I wonder what’s wrong with me…I wonder I wonder I wonder…..
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