poetry to save your life

When you asked about how the world was made, I knew the answer. The days before I met you were slim and blurry, lines of wet paper. When I tried to keep your smile in my arms, I knew. That’s when my world was made. I had everything, but I also had nothing. You were everything and I was nothing. A small price to pay because my version of love was unfair. One always loved the other more. One will love the other differently. We had many phases of our creation. I was young, I was easily swept, I still am, but I’ve grown. A tree seeing its leaves grow back for the first time, the dew on my soaked branches, your tears. You helped with my growth. You were the universe within this universe. The lyrics within songs we couldn’t translate with the human tongue. The language of flowers died inside of you because you had fire in the pit of your soul. When you asked about how love was born, I knew the answer. It was in the writing you shared. I fell in love with your words before I truly found out about your smile. The way your hated words became poetry I loved. When you talked about waves and beaches. How you’re always waiting on a stream of inspiration that will never arrive. Your inner writer died when we became one. Your inner writer lives within me. The poetry that you’ll never write, I am writing it now. I know you envied my strength to stay up late and call you every night, I did it for you. For the nights you stayed up for everyone, those five years I kept myself awake to be there. I never missed a call at night. That was my favorite definition of love. Staying awake to keep you safe. That was how love found a way to be born. When you asked how love ebbs and flows like the ocean. Can’t you see? You are the ocean. You’re drenched inside of your own entrapment and upbringing. The way your mother has a warped sense of family. The way dictatorship is a struggle you deal with everyday. You’re sensitive and so am I. I learned about the ocean from your tears. Salty and sorrows, never finding a way to calm your sea was my lost poetry. The way I knew how to cry the first time we held one another. There’s some love you’ll always remember and can never forget. Some people will take us a lifetime to get over, my sister once said. I complained about your lack of depth because I could not see. I already died in your cries for help. I knew of no boundaries or remorse. A child learning how to yell with his fragile voice for the first next time. The ocean moves within you and we’re the boats searching for the lighthouse. When you asked about love and how it could set people on fire, I knew the answer. The way your hands held a torch. The way you touched life. The way you held lovers. The way you sparked my soul. The way you peppered my eyes. It was meant to set not just I, but the world on fire. You held the tiniest of flames in your eyes, but still decided to burn me. There is love for old flames and then there’s something we can’t explain. Like how long it’ll take to heal. How love can break, but also build. How hearts survive a nuclear disaster. How forest fires can create life how poetry can save my life. How your loving memories destroyed the poet, but kept him sane. The fires don’t stop burning, they don’t dim, we’re all sizzling and baking underneath your lips. Love is unexplainable, but we should still try. Because when I fell in love with you a part of me died. Because when I fell in love with you a part of me woke up from a coma. Because when I fell in love with you the universe created our eyes and the stars became this poetry. I’m sorry if I couldn’t be more. You’ll have galaxies and stardusts waiting for me within you. I’m sorry, but love is unexplainable.
—  And somehow we managed to survive it. // k.c.

There’s a line down my stomach to prove it, a pseudo-scar that splits my body in two equal parts. Between the protruding parts of my collarbone, between my breasts and all the way down my body there has always been a line. I used to wonder what it’d be like to fold myself in half across that point. To see if my body would come out equal and even. To see if that would make me perfect.

To the ordinary work experience.
To The timing and the control.
We become machines of labor.
Clock in, clock out.
Hour after hour.
All we have to look forward to
Is a check and the weekend,
Day after day.
And they both do not know how to stay.
They are both lovers,
coming and going continuously.
After that there is not much to live for.
We Fall in love, then we raise a family.
More clocking in and out.
It is almost a suicide.
This makes dying sound too easy.
But the art. The poetry.
Now that can save your life.
And the films and the music.
Sometimes that is all we have,
It is all we need.
Art is the savior.
Take it in as often as possible.
It is, possibly, the only
form of beauty left
In humanity.
—  R. M. Drake