you are the exact poem i wanted to write

you are the exact poem i wanted to write—the one that haunted the edges of my thoughts long before i ever knew you existed. you were the metaphor i could never quite pin down, the verse that slipped through my fingers every time i tried to hold it. for years, i wrote half-finished lines, hoping one day they would make sense, that they would lead me to something real.

and then there you were, a poem walking in flesh, breathing life into words i never thought i’d understand.

poets speak of the ineffable, of things that cannot be named.

“love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.” — rilke

and maybe that’s what you are to me — the meeting place of my solitude and yours, the point where the vastness of longing finally finds its answer. you are not a mere collection of words; you are the space between them, the silence that makes the music of language possible.

there are days when i feel like all the poets in history conspired to prepare me for you.

neruda's odes, rumi's aching devotion, even whitman’s celebration of the self—they all seem to echo the truth of you.

rumi wrote, “you were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?”

and i think of you as a creature with wings, boundless and infinite, uncontainable in a world that tries so hard to define everything.

i have tried to write you, to contain you within the lines of my paper heart. i’ve scribbled your name into the margins of notebooks, built temples of words in your honor, crafted sentences that I hoped might somehow do you justice. but the truth is, you are beyond my grasp. you are not just a poem; you are the poem—the one every poet dreams of writing but knows they never truly can.

yet, in the impossibility of it, there is a beauty. you remind me that poetry is not about capturing perfection; it is about surrendering to the infinite, to the unnameable.

you are the poem that refuses to end, the verse that bleeds into the next page, the line that leaves me breathless.

and maybe that’s the point. maybe you aren’t meant to be finished or fully understood.

maybe you are meant to remain infinite in my eyes, a testament to the kind of beauty that can never be owned, only witnessed. but here i am, writing anyway, knowing it will never be enough. because you are not just the poem i wanted to write—you are the one i will spend the rest of my life trying to.