Writing you out of my system, one poem at a time

When I Write, It Doesn’t Always Make Sense

I know, I’ve never been good at writing coherent stories or poems that make sense. But when I write, it’s always after a hurricane–of events, of thoughts, of emotions..

And I write as fast as I can because whatever comes out after the big explosion of emotions and life…whatever I write then, will be the rawest version of the story.

It’s the version that I may not understand at all. It’s the version I know came from heart and not from a pool of vocabulary to impress. It’s the version that is real.

The stories I write are incoherent. I know.

But how else do we ever fathom what happens in life than to write and write and write..

Until we see the constellations.

Caught in Between

All throughout winter, I thought of you. I thought of how a thousand miles became our barrier and how the wreck inside my heart was too wide that it let in two more souls that led you out.

Dear John,

               We met senior year. You said hi, I was shy but I said hello. And so began chapter 1 of our story.

Dear Gerard,

               I was a few tables from you waiting for the milk tea I ordered. You were with your friends. I was alone. The place was crowded, but you caught my eye. And we smiled at each other.

Dear John,

               You read my favourite books, you carried my bag for me, you call me at night and talk to me until the sun rises. You were my bestfriend.

Dear Gerard,

               You asked for my number and how cliché of me to just write it in a napkin. But that cliché moment led to you holding my hand in the middle of nowhere, while you painted me a perfect shade of blue skies.

Dear John,

               We kissed one night. It was at a party, 8:00 in the evening. You took me to the roof where the light of so many distant skyscrapers and houses and buildings were like unfathomed constellations of intergalactic wonder. I felt infinite.

Dear Gerard,

               Late in September, you saw me cry. The first time ever that anyone saw me cry. But you held me in an embrace that petrified me. I learned your secrets and I realized you were just as fragile as I am. We were both misfits. We were both crazy. We were both in love.

Dear John,

               I love you.

Dear Gerard,

               I love you.

 

How strange it is for friendship to trigger something more than a feeling, something more than just a brink of emotion.. A gush of icy flames drowning the cacophony of misery with the invigorating experience of blind bliss. Reader, I am inlove. But with two.

I left one in the past, now I have two in the present..but I don’t know who to walk with in the future.