A Love Letter To All Romantics: Keep Breaking Open.
Part II (Read Part I here)
I’ve got so many soul mates.
So many kindred spirits lingering in this wide open space on earth and I want to reach them all with simple slippery words that they can hold on to.
I hope a few of these fragments reach you and touch you in all the ways you long to be touched.
We were made too fragile and too tender and too brutally soft to ever consider hardening. So we dent the pages of our books with our melancholy, and we ache for all the worlds sadness that we keep attempting to carry on our already callous backs.
We keep the vulnerability, we revel in the rawness.
And I know that sometimes it stings but the best things come after the ache.
Keep aching with me. Keep breaking open.
You, with your audible smile.
I can hear it when the corners of your mouth turn up and you look at me with the dustiest nooks of courage wedged between your teeth.
I wish your eyes turned crimson, the way your cheeks do when I look at you.
I wish the fire burned in your lashes, the way it does on your lips. So you could see the warmth, like I do.
You’ve got the most sensitive summer skin.
But I’ve read the maps of your scars, I’ve traced the freckles. You are the color of everything. But mostly you are the color of the sky at 7:30 pm when it hits the perfect pause of blue blocks meshed against warm yellow streaks.
You’ve got exquisite taste in sadness too.
It’s the perfect combination of melancholy and hope, sprinkled with rage and longing. It’s the kind that I can feel coming from miles away. The kind that comforts me.
You are so good at the silence.
Sometimes it screams and pounds against every curve of my flesh. Sometimes it comes with kisses, and sometimes it’s more stoic, only accompanied by your eyes on mine.
Just know that it’s never going to be something glaringly loud or obvious with us.
It might be the way you sip your coffee or the way you read with your whole body hunched over as if you’re trying to pour yourself into the story. It might be your eyes: the green tint, the honey core. The way your lashes look longer against the sun.
Darling, none of us are much more than questions and commas and dizzy vowels stuck on repeat. I can’t give you answers, but I can listen to your questions and etch them firmly into my palms. We can keep them there until one of us is ready to yell them into the universe and unveil them for whatever they’re worth (they’ll always be worth something, if only to us).
You are the moments between being sound asleep and wide awake.
The ones in which your mind gets both loud enough and quiet enough to let you really listen. You are this clarity to me. and I don’t want to share you with the rest of the world so I only keep you in that sacred space between my eyelids.
And I know that sometimes it will be hard, to let anyone see you in the tremoring spaces of blinding imperfection. And that it will be hard to ask the unlit questions that fester in the darkness.
So please always try to know:
I will love you when you are drawn out by heavy matches or carefully crafted with candles.
I will love you when you burn silently; I will love you when you burn brightly.
I will love your quiet evenings as much as I love your rainstorms.
P.S. The idea that you are hard to love is ludicrous.