You are this idea

half-formed and flickering

waiting for the day

someone decides

to finish you.

I could put together all the images of my mind into words, commit them to paper in ink that feels more like blood from my veins than scratches from a pen. It wouldn’t do you justice. My words could never do you justice.

We are a tiny thing, you and I. Two inches tall in a sea full of giants. We live like firecrackers, the steep set reality that at any second we’re crushed under their feet, a flick in time and gone, heavy on our limbs. It’s why with a steady voice you said, “I love you,” and without missing a beat I said it back. It’s why when you got lost in the waves I let go of the shore anchoring me down. It is why we go off in the middlle of daylight, New Year’s coming round in the middle of May. But they’ll never know, those giants in the sea, about us. They don’t understand the tiny things, forever blind to the colored sparks exploding against the sun.

I get a little lost some days. I think today might be one of them. I hope you believe me when I say tomorrow, I’ll find my way back to you. 

We give our hate freely but jealously hide our love. It’s a selective process, we pick out from flesh and bone what is worthy of our love and what isn’t it. Secretly we worry it’s us who aren’t worthy.

The world is worthy.

You are worthy.

Words are no more than ink on scraps of paper but they still have the power to make you see things in ways you thought impossible. Words are magic.

I’ve created this prison. Deep within myself and walls so high, the climb up and out is agonizing. I slip, I fall, but I try. I’m trying.