You again, damnit

I keep thinking about how I want to write something but I’m so lacking words. Nothing seems powerful enough to convey how I feel and do it justice. I don’t even just want to write; I need to. 

I can’t wrangle these words right even with relative perspective. Even when I imagine you were sitting beside me reading your favourite prose, I can’t think straight. I can’t even think bent right now. 

Perhaps I just can’t cope with the idea of disrespecting words on a page, whatever kind of page they land on. Stringing a sentence that doesn’t make sense to be immortalised in text format makes me sick. Even if this text is just buzzing around some quiet corner of the internet, minding its own business. 

But I need to write. 

I think I’m scared that I’ll write you too much. The more I re-read myself the more I see you in my work and it feels like confirmation; heartache. Love. 

I’d want to marry a poet. 

Imagine our vows. They’d be enough to make you gag. 

I’d want to marry a creative, an expressive soul brimming with emotion and words and sound. Let them paint every room in my heart with colour and with notes. I’d want to marry a man of some faith or connection, wholehearted spirit. 

At this time I feel dark. Dark and heavy and somber. Every day I hurt to some degree. Some days are far worse, so much so that I can’t leave my bed for I am stricken with heartache. It’s missing you, I always miss you. 

I miss you serenading me with love songs in my studio. I miss you laying atop me with your ear between my breasts, hearing my rhythm, my fingers in your hair. Fully clothed, just laying. 

I suppose I just have to remember that if you see a light in the dark and blink real quick whilst making semi-convincing sound effects then any light in the dark can seem like a firework.

I’d want to marry you.  

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