I stopped writing when I met you. I thought I could only speak of the bad. I thought I was made for boys who could not love, for men who could not see. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen; you’re all I’ve known since I was seventeen. Two years have passed, I still love you, but I am writing again, and that is a sign in its own. I was a newborn babe in March. I’d grown to know your ways, to know your footsteps pacing down the hall. I’d mastered the things to say when you get impatient with me, when you tell me that I am unlovable. I carried enough love for you and I on my back and that September when the storm came – I swear I tried to change. I tried to be sweeter, birdlike. I tried to paint the sky rose once more, I tried to quench the sun from its honey. I tried to wake you up from this bad dream. But you didn’t want to be helped, did you? You clipped my wings and asked me to stay, you begged this hummingbird for all of her nectar. More, more, more. Amor, it is now January and I’m afraid that I have given it all to you. Every last drop . I am sorry that you fell in love with a thorn, a dead-beat bird. I apologize for my emotions, those that come in waves. Amor! Forgive me for my persistence as I tried to water your concrete shoulders. But most of all, forgive me for I am writing again. I am writing again and my mind wanders to places I wish it would not.
Your hummingbird. a.a (via @prettypoetry)














