I write about airports and making a home out of them.
I write about distance and how it is the only steady thing in my life and how it isn’t.
I write about time and never having enough of it.
I write about packing, about fitting my entire life into a small suitcase and always forgetting things, sometimes people.
I write about friendships and how they can turn sour over time, like left out milk.
I write about rage; the kind of rage that makes me want to go up in flames.
I write about the sun and the moon and how they always miss each other.
I write about the first snow of the year and a forgotten cup of cold tea in the kitchen.
I write about vanilla ice cream and hurricanes that tear down whole cities but not me, never me.
I write about the darkness inside each one of us and about the people who bring the light out of us.
I write about the way people’s eyes sparkle when they talk about the things they love.
I write about intangible things.
I write about turning people over like the pages of a book, trying to read them and failing because everyone has their own language.
I write about rushing to the phone every time someone calls or texts.
I write about the feeling you get when you are reunited with a loved one after a long time.
I write about soft things, like the smell of summer rain.
I write about following my dreams and living my own life.
I write love letters to past lovers and to future ones.
I fill pages with curses about my body because of the way it is never enough and always too much.
I fill notebooks with praises about my body because it is unique, incredible and strong in its own ways.
I write up my weekly grocery lists
and fill them with all your favourite snacks.
(I guess this poem is more about you
than about anything else.)
(Even when I don’t write about you,
I write about you.)
