Speechless Love Letter
I showed you that I wrote:
"I never met someone with skin like mine.
I like to hold our arms together and see the same in us
the whorled line of tan and pale, pockmarked with
dark spots of beauty”
Then I asked: Did it make you feel anything?
And you didn’t respond the right way but it’s on me because
I shouldn’t have told you that.
This is the love letter stamped on the back of the lump in my throat.
Piling up traffic of ideas I never wrote.
I was about to write you another poem but I can feel those words don’t want to come out
now, which is ironic because
I was about to write you another poem about talking
which I’ve written about before but That was about my stammer. A less-interesting girl making me tongue-tied. I was about to write you another poem because writing about you after so much time of not, was Atlas’s weight off my shoulders. And talking to youwas a mountain I couldn’t not attempt to climb. I was about to write you another poem about how words mattered less than I thought, along with how pretty they sounded coming out of my mouth, and if they were heard or not, because
I was about to write you another poem about how a serenade is still beautiful without knowing the word ‘serenade’ and
I was about to say I always wanna be in your neck of the woods even if I have to explain what ‘neck of the woods’ means and
I was about to write you another poem where I was going to say our language barrier is a wall I will tear down with a hammer of finally-amicable silence and
I was going to artfully recite that quote about talking a relationship to death
but now It won’t apply, because ours was strangled via text and
I was about to write you another poem where I would discuss the body language we both spoke fluently
once.
but now
I won’t poeticize your picture-frame hair, your Indigo pupils, the music of your accent, or the cool of your skin. I won’t mention that I said I think your essence is bright and alive and curious and so sweet. The scar you left on my arm is barely visible anyway. And I meant what I said, when I said everyone deserves poetry to be written about them.
But you’ll have to find somebody else to write yours.
– by frustrationincorporated
