I canât write you poetryâŚ
I have a book in which my exes slumber and slither.
A book filled with echoes of past âlovesâ and past tears.
Testaments to every mistake and heartbreak I survived.
You, my love, are not in there.
I have a book filled with beautiful words.
Words that I imbued with all of my passion, and all of my pain.
Beautiful words I once wielded to weave stories of hideous moments, and unremarkable people.
You, my love, are not in there.
You are not there because, as hard as I have tried, I canât write you poetry.
As hard as I try, my poetâs brain cannot seem to create for you.
This is not because you donât inspire me.
It is not because we lack the passion I once felt for those mediocre muses.
It is not because I donât love you.
(If it were simply a case of love, I would be able to write sonnets and epics -
I would wax lyrical for hours, never resorting stereotypes or cliche.
I would be Shakespeare and Homer reincarnate.)
I canât write you poetry,
because it is easier to tell tales of the Hurricane Chasers -
those who claimed to love the thrill of the storm, but ran the moment the clear-up began. I
It is easier to tell tales of the Lion Tamers -
those who longed to hear my fearsome roar,
but loathed the subdued whimper that eventually emerged.
It is easier to tell tales of the boys whose sandpaper hands sought to shape me into something smaller,
than to talk of how you are the one man who steadfastly stood alongside me and encouraged me to grow.
I canât write you poetry, because I was taught that to love meant to be hurt, not to be healed.
Because I believed that love was a battlefield, not a place of peace.
Because I learnt that everyone who loved me leaves.
But you have stayed.
I canât write you poetry.
But.
If I wrote you a poem, I would write about anchors - steadiness and stability.
I would write about safe havens, and secure bases, and how for once it doesnât feel scary to feel attached.
I would write about how when the world spins out of control, your eyes are all I need to keep me centred.
I canât write you poetry.
But.
If I wrote you a poem, I would say that âforeverâ no longer feels like a lonely life sentence, but a promise.
A blessing.
An adventure.
I canât write you poetry.
But If I wrote you a poem, I would title it âHome.â
























