We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.
When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down happy. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.
I will pay attention to detail.
I will remember the way she takes her tea.
The way her eyes light up when she’s passionate about something.
The way her breathing changes when I’m near.
My first few words in these things we call poems will slip into the cracks and crevices of her protective walls, make a home in her darkness and they will light up with appreciation and affection.
The next few will attack from the outside; they will move swiftly with force like arrows with flaming tips and aim directly for the heart that life has partially frozen.
Others will caress her skin when I am not around, and will remind her that she will always have my arms to come home to, even when the Earth around her that she’s lived on for her whole life feels foreign.
I will breathe her in slowly and deeply, the way I did my medication from an asthma nebulizer.
Her voice will be my wake up call in my dreams before my alarm sounds.
Her kiss would be treated as my daily birthday present.
If I had my way, her laugh would be on my phone, on repeat.
My fingers will wrap around hers as if they were my last lifeline even though I would happily drown in her daily.
My hands will be navigators, and I will not rest until I have found the most pleasurable places to touch.
My lips will be stamps and with every kiss I will leave my mark on her for her to feel and remember.
She will be documented in free verse and rhyme, from her morning routine to her weirdest dream.
She will be made to smile, sometimes so hard it feels like her cheeks are bursting at the seams.
She will be mine, and I will be hers.
And when life tries to interrupt our peace, my words will start their onslaught once again.
I watch her as she draws, her eyebrows creased in silent concentration, looking as if she herself belonged in a museum.
My hands cramped then, and I yearned to sit alongside her and draw something of my own.
But who was I kidding?
My art was writing, and my stick figures couldn’t hold a candle to her actual humans.
So I wrote instead.
I wrote words that painted mental pictures of sunsets and dawns and thunderstorms and sun showers.
I wrote words that made mosaics out of the shattered pieces of glass left over from broken hearts.
I wrote words that made animations out of my daydreams of old-fashioned romance.
I wrote words that made music; they sung of love lost, love unrequited and love wanted.
I wrote words that caressed skin and tattooed minds with desires for affection, my silent body art.
I wrote words that made masks with carved smiles to hide my inner frustrations.
I wrote words that made bead necklaces out of my sadness; one bead for every tear that fell when no one was watching.
I wrote words that took pictures when I had no camera available and I captured as much detail as my human eye could see and my human mind could remember.
I wrote, I wrote, I wrote.
This was my art.