I was born to love you the way one loves a poem, with the calm of someone who discovers beauty in every pause and in every silence, as if your existence were something that had to be read slowly.
But I was meant to miss you like a miserable poet, the kind who writes with trembling hands because their heart does not fit in their chest, because they feel too much and have nowhere to put it.
Sometimes I think I was destined to find you, not just to live, not just to be, but to love you with an intensity I cannot explain and yet here I am with all this love building up.
I remain in this place without knowing in which corner of the world to put all the love I feel, without knowing how to hold onto something that no longer has somewhere to go.
Because I miss you so much it hurts in a silent way, the kind that cannot be seen but takes over everything and words are not enough, they fall short, clumsy, as if language itself were not made to contain you.
I write and write as if at some point it would be enough, as if gathering all these sentences could bring me closer to you but it does not.
Because I was born to love you, not to learn how to live without you, not to turn you into a memory, not to place your name somewhere it no longer hurts and even so, that is all I have left.
As sad and devastating as it may seem, no matter how alone I feel many days, sometimes I think I can only be this incomplete poem, this constant echo, this infinite attempt to say what I feel without ever succeeding.
I love you Calabaza. Always.
tangentwithtanner
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