She tells me that adventures are made out of fire, so make sure you light up your morning with enough to guide you safely back home if I’m not there to do it.
My best friend has the soul of a unicorn battling with a dragon, mythical beasts in constant competition to win the day over— she is made out of poetry and stardust laced with the solemn and loyalty of true friendship, I often wonder if she’s the lucky one or if I am.
You see I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, but I think we might have met in a past life. My mother tells me that everyone you will love in this lifetime, you are bound by blood and bones from previous wounds. The kind of person to believe that birthmarks are where you died in a past life, the kind to tell me that wherever your moe is located, that’s where you’re the strongest— you have the kindest parts of my mother’s laugh and the most gentle parts of a rose.
She tells me that if I have trip over the same rock a thousand more times over until I get it, she’ll be right there to remind me that mountains are made from the stones that I kick. My best friend finds meaning in the simplest of things, if the sun didn’t shine today, it’s because someone on the otherside of the planet needed warmth to steer away from the cold that December unknowingly leaves behind for the summer to finally kiss it back into overdrive— if love is real and life is simple, then all of our favorite things begin with a cup of tea with 13 different types of honey to go with it.
When I didn’t have anyone, you were there. You didn’t have to be, but you’re just like me. You have a soft spot for strays and broken things, you could probably write a poem for every single raindrop that misses its cloud if you felt like it. My best friend has more than a way with words, she has a way with souls.
My universe, my everything— my heart, my poetry. My joy, my freedom from depression— my windy morning to remind me that leaves need to breathe again too, my sunshine forever poem left in any backpocket. My airplane folding and throwing it down the tallest building of every city kind of girl, you’re the most brilliant and humble person that I know.
She sings her heart away when nobody listens, but if you wanted to— she’d sing for you too. She says that love is only worth it if you’re able to share it.
You are love. You are the infinite amount of stars that will die out some day. You are the beauty that resides in knowing that we won’t last that long, so why not enjoy it while we’re here? Why not poetry it all away until the pain subsides? Fuck the drugs, I want more love. Tell me where it doesn’t make the most sense, tell me about your favorite songs, tell me about your dreams and I’ll tell you about mine. If you’re a rose, then I’m the soil. If you’re a bird, I’ll be your wings. If we go to hell, I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again— the devil’s gonna have to send us back up, because we’re going to spray paint his gates with so much poetry… it’ll start to look like heaven. For goodness sakes, send those two back up, I’ve had enough type of energy.
When it rains— she’s the most beautiful reflection of the sky you’ve ever seen in a puddle, metaphorically polaroid worthy left inside of our throats— I’ve detailed every single petal and they’re all different, she says if she had to write herself an origin story, it’ll start with a thousand poems turned into paper cranes sent to lovers who need it when they feel unlovable— my words against yours, if I’m the reason why she got up today, then she’s the reason why I dream at night.
December is the scariest month for us and I know death doesn’t look both ways when it crosses the street— but when I ask about your mother, every question is just a statement that says thank you for giving birth to this magnificent soul. I love you for giving her to us— life isn’t perfect, I realize that, but she’s hopeful and that keeps my spirits high. Worlds apart, but the best way to love someone is knowing that they’ve got your back, not even the ocean can stop that. That’s love. That’s real. That unconditional shit.
When I was low down and out, when I was suicidal and hurt myself because I didn’t have any sense of direction, when I was not acting how I wanted to truly be, when I was giving my time and energy to the wrong people, when I was heartbroken and stranded inside of my own head with nowhere to swim and no one to save me— you were my late night I’ll spill positivity inside of you like light rain on a gloomy day, but by 2 pm, the sun is here and it’s all nice again— you were my sweet, I like what you did with that kind of friend— you were my writing after writing because expressing how you really feel is the most raw way to write a poem kind of love.
I would be really fucked without you, I just wanted you to know that.
I love you wasn’t enough, so I wrote you a poem instead. Thank you for everything.
