my life was nothing but filling notes in my phone at 3AM — feverishly writing every idea that came to my mind in hopes that someone’s heartbreak would look something like mine.
I kept to myself, more used to scars than to skin, private concerts in car rides with the people who’ve known me in times I didn’t know myself. never stepping outside of the usual, never asking to be noticed for anything but my words.
outside of creating, I didn’t exist.
and then there’s you, someone who existed in every part of life that I ignored for favour of lamplight writing and staying in the corner I made my home.
I would have laughed if anyone tried to tell me I would write more than one poem about you. (more than two, more than three.) most people never make it past one line, a mention in another piece.
but then you take up entire pages, half finished thoughts, the only way I really know how to say what I feel without stumbling and stuttering.
and now, I write about kisses in parking lots and inside jokes about the worst silence.
for the first time in a very long time, maybe in forever, I believe I could be more than the things I create. that my existence has more significance than this singular thing I allowed myself to be for years.
you’re the only person who exists on both sides of who I am, the one I have always been and the person I’m still trying to become.
