Jinx

I never thought people were beautiful enough to write poetry about until I met you. I wasted ink on ravens and lazy wheat fields and the silhouettes of midnight trains, I tiptoed around pages, spilled across the floor, their lines dedicated to the abstract, and never once did I wonder what a person looked like on paper. My eyes saw only the stars, and not the starry-eyed lovers, my skin felt only the wind’s embrace, and not the arms of another, and my ears heard only the rain — delicate one minute, and forceful the next — and not the tenderness and sinew able to coexist in one tiny soul. But now, now I spend my days collecting adjectives to build poetry out of your features, bricks to build castles out of your name. And it is difficult, to construct a human being from only ink smudges and coffee and too little sleep, to search for synonyms in the early morning hours. But I will do it. I will do it. I will do it. I will do it. I will write until I run out of ink, of paper, of breaths, whichever comes first, and I will craft you into a poem the stars will envy, and try to imitate, and you will wake up one day and wonder why they are shining a little brighter.

HOLY SHIT, IT WAS THE ORIGINAL ONE

but has he nailed the most important thing yet?

But before I go, remember one thing. Promise me one thing. Be brave when you’re afraid.

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