Speechless Love Letter
I showed you that I wrote:
"I never met someone with skin like mine.
I like to hold our arms together and see the same in us
the whorled line of tan and pale, pockmarked with
dark spots of beautyâ
Then I asked: Did it make you feel anything?
And you didnât respond the right way but itâs on me because
I shouldnât have told you that.
This is the love letter stamped on the back of the lump in my throat.
Piling up traffic of ideas I never wrote.
I was about to write you another poem but I can feel those words donât want to come out
now, which is ironic because
I was about to write you another poem about talking
which Iâve written about before but That was about my stammer. A less-interesting girl making me tongue-tied. I was about to write you another poem because writing about you after so much time of not, was Atlasâs weight off my shoulders. And talking to youwas a mountain I couldnât not attempt to climb. I was about to write you another poem about how words mattered less than I thought, along with how pretty they sounded coming out of my mouth, and if they were heard or not, because
I was about to write you another poem about how a serenade is still beautiful without knowing the word âserenadeâ and
I was about to say I always wanna be in your neck of the woods even if I have to explain what âneck of the woodsâ means and
I was about to write you another poem where I was going to say our language barrier is a wall I will tear down with a hammer of finally-amicable silence and
I was going to artfully recite that quote about talking a relationship to death
but now It wonât apply, because ours was strangled via text and
I was about to write you another poem where I would discuss the body language we both spoke fluently
once.
but now
I wonât poeticize your picture-frame hair, your Indigo pupils, the music of your accent, or the cool of your skin. I wonât mention that I said I think your essence is bright and alive and curious and so sweet. The scar you left on my arm is barely visible anyway. And I meant what I said, when I said everyone deserves poetry to be written about them.
But youâll have to find somebody else to write yours.
â by frustrationincorporated
