“Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not even loss. You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again.”—Finn Butler (via heartique)
That’s the funny thing about creative writing, actually -
When a piece of poetry, for example, is being written, it is obviously about whomever the writer is thinking about upon performing the task. (Or, maybe, the writer is just a fabulous fictional author, and what they make up has absolutely no relation to real people or events.) However, the writer is just one person. That piece will only ever connect with one writer.
But, hopefully, that poem will have the chance to connect with numerous readers. Hopefully multiple people read and find meaning in a particular piece. As someone who enjoys and excels in writing, I know that I am constantly hopeful of this.
So, using this logic, the poem is really for the readers, not for the writer.
And since the poem is for you (the reader), it doesn’t matter who or what I wrote it about. What matters is who or what you think of when you read it.
So, I guess, I’m writing about whomever or whatever you want me to be writing about.
“Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.”— ― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly
I read the first one over a thousand times, each time editing it, in my mind. Nothing sounds right when we’re not together. I imagine this one won’t be any better.
But please, read it in my voice, anyway. Cracked and quiet, but sure as hell - the way I talk to you when I’m trying not to cry.
The loneliest feelings in the world: 1) Knowing that you have to just lay awake at night, instead of getting into your car to drive. 2) Kissing people that remind me of you. (It never tastes quite right.)
You know I’m serious when I make lists. Only you will get this. I’d give it all for you.
Now you’re just a dim light in the distance, when, once, you were an entire city, glowing green. You asked why, and the answer I gave was poetry. I’ve set so many things on fire with what I feel for you, and now I’m standing in the ashes, burnt with defeat.
I promise: 1) I could still make you feel like you belong. 2) I’d even love the broken pieces. 3) All of my words are flooded with you.
All the marks I’ve left on your skin have gone away. This is the most permanant thing I know how to do. I should’ve said it every chance I had: I loved you, I love you, I’ll love you. I’d love you through the madness, this one’s for you.
Everything in this universe is made up of tiny, little atoms - more atoms than anyone could ever count. It is estimated that there are 100 trillion atoms in every human cell. We can’t even estimate how many cells are in the human body. Think of how many cells can fit in just the dot of a pen.
I don’t know if atoms can be better or worse than others, but for argument’s sake, yours are the best. And yet, I didn’t fall in love with a single one.
I kissed all of the atoms that lined your surface, and I did my best to understand the ones that were buried beneath. But you were never special to me because you were made up of some exquisitely beautiful building blocks. I didn’t care about the trillions of little things that make you just like everyone else.
What counts, to me, is what exists in the spaces between those atoms. You are not made up of cells, or bones, or flesh. You are made up of trillions of little stories. Your memory is not something that exists in your mind, alone. It leaks and spreads throughout your entire being. It puts the light in your eyes and the warmth on your breath.
So I fell in love with the shoe that you lost down by the creek. And the tower you would’ve scaled, had the ladder not shook. I loved your crazy ex-girlfriend, with the propane tank you shot bullets at, with the street sign that said your name. You are made up of the toothpicks you shoved into the lock on your safe, and of the pole you backed into one morning before school. You’re the dog you loved, the hunter green walls of you room, and the fox you shot with a gun that was way too powerful. I fell in love with the piercing you paid for, the piercing you got for free, and even the one you did yourself. I loved you for throwing out your back during a sneeze, for telling a teacher your hockey sweatshirt was your hall pass, and for being a natural at figure skating. You’re made up of a lost cell phone in the woods, every Disney trip you took, and the boys’ whose skates you hate to sharpen. You’re the dip your high school teacher told you to stop using, and the surgery that resulted when you didn’t listen. I fell in love with you because of the sound your best friend made as he banged against the wall in the next room over, and because of the sunrise you watched later that night. I love your desire to ride a bike to the west coast. I love your murder dreams, your sex dreams, your nightmares. I know you’re made up of more broken dreams than most.
Maybe, at some point, you’ve thought about how many of your cells could fit on the head of a pin. But I’m sure you never thought that the majority of your mass is made up of the stories you tell. Every single day, you’re making memories and filling up more spaces between all of your cells. You can’t ever count them or measure their weight, but you’re constantly affected by their presence.
Some of the stories that make up you are the same stories that make up me. I hope those are some of the heaviest ones.
Well, it’s hard to live in front of the world - there’s only so much that you can pretend. Write down what it is you’re thinking, take each day as it comes, you never what’s hanging ‘round the bend. And as far from the world as we get, I can swear, that the two of us will always be the same. Figure out what it is you believe in, and if you must choose, try not to trade your fortune in for fame. And you’ll learn, learn, learn. You’ll wait your turn, turn, turn. And you’ll get sick along the way by the things that people say - it will break your heart against the wind - but you will just keep breathing in. And if you’re scared to live in front of the world, I’ve got news for you - you should be, then. ‘Cause when your confidence gets low, and you’ve got no where to go, just remember how you felt about me and our friends. We will learn, learn, learn. We’ll wait our turn, turn, turn. We all get sick along the way by the things that people say - it breaks our hearts against the wind - but we will just keep breathing in. Watch the way you fall in love. If you’re smart, you’ll take it slow. But don’t ask me about it, ‘cause I don’t know. But I’m going to learn, learn, learn. I’ll wait my turn, turn, turn. And I’ll get sick along the way by the things that people say - sometimes I’ll break my heart against the wind - but I will just keep breathing in.
I can only hope that you still think of me as an individual with a strong imagination - as someone who does whatever they want, despite rules, or judgement, or any obstacles that might be in the way. I hope you can still feel my passion; maybe you’re still stained from when I poured it all over you. Did you ever notice how I was hyper aware of every movement you made? I watched everything - I wanted to know all of the things that were going through your mind when you were close to me. I relished in the feeling of your heart getting faster, while your body became more relaxed. I hope you’ll always know that the way I looked at you was a way I’ll never be able to look at anyone else.
I hope you’ll always remember me, but I hope that you’ll try not to miss me too much. Try not to regret letting me go.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.”—Stephen Chbosky
Fuck you for claiming to know him. When you fall asleep, he starts choking on “what ifs”. He’s seventy percent water, and the rest of him is bruise. He can’t even dream without feeling guilty. He’s the most selfless person in your world, and he still fears that he’s doing everything wrong.
As I write this,
I feel your eyes glide over me.
And as you read it,
you hear my voice.
What we have in common, then,
is a special sense of loneliness,
caused by the miles between our bodies,
but the absence of space between our souls.
People are homes, with glassy eyes for windows, and walls made of bones. And I know he’d spend years building me the giant mansion he thinks I deserve. But I’d try to make him understand, although he never would, that all I’ve ever wanted was a cabin in the woods.