This isn't torture. Torture happens in small, dark rooms in countries with names you struggle to spell. This is just mildly unpleasant. This isn't heroism. Heroism happens in churches that are also schools, performed by teachers with no names and no place to stay. This is just a good deed for the day. This isn't loss. Loss happens on fields filled with poppies, in hospitals buzzing with flies, in distant deserts and late at night when there's no good reason for the phone to ring. This is just longing. This isn't important. Important happens on bended knees and is breathed on last breaths with hands clutched tight, hearts tighter. This is just a distraction.
If it doesn't happen magically over night, you might want to try doing it manually, every day.
If our arms aren't strong enough, we'll rip the roof off with our hearts. If the road is dark, our dreams will light the way. If there isn't space in the back, we'll make space in our hopes. Pack a bag with everything you want to keep and leave the rest behind. Because I'm coming to pick you up.
You buy things and you keep them clean. You take care of them. Keep them in a special pocket. Away from keys and coins. Away from other things that should be kept clean and taken care of as well. Then they get scratched. And scratched again. And again. And again. And again. Soon, you don't care about them anymore. You don't keep them in a special pocket. You throw them in the bag with everything else. They've surpassed their form and become nothing but function. People are like that. You meet them and keep them clean. In a special pocket. And then you start to scratch them. Not on purpose. Sometimes you just drop them by accident or forget which pocket they're in. But after the first scratch, it's all downhill from there. You see past their form. They become function. They are a purpose. Only their essence remains.
Don't be afraid of the world. We're just all the people you could've been.
I don't know if you felt that or not. But it felt like two people kissing after hours of thinking about it. It felt like two people talking after nights of silence. It felt like two people touching after weeks of being numb. It felt like two people facing each other after months of looking away. It felt like two people in love after years of being alone. And it felt like two people meeting each other, after an entire lifetime of not meeting each other.
And you keep whispering the same story to yourself "I'll be unhappy now because that'll make me happy later. Because that's how a story works." So your happiness will always happen later, never now. Life isn't a story. Life is chaos.
I won't compose prose every morning you open your eyes next to me (I won't compare you to a summer's day). I won't kiss the tears from your cheeks whenever you cry. I won't remember every appointment. I won't keep the sheen on my armour. I won't know what to say sometimes. I won't get your order right. I'll be late. I'll fuck-up. But I'll write something for you when you least expect it (in summer or winter). But I'll hold you as tight as I can whenever I can. But I'll burst through the door as soon as I remember. But I'll polish it until it shines again. But I'll say something anyway. But I'll go back and make it right. But I'll get there. But I'll try.
Something has moved and bumped the cradle of everything. The world is out of sync. Birds fly backwards and the fish swim through the air. Hours pass like seconds and seconds pass like hours. The light fades before the sun leaves. The stars shine before the night falls. I am here early. You are here late.
Oh shut up. Every time it rains, it stops raining. Every time you hurt, you heal. After darkness, there is always light and you get reminded of this every morning but still you choose to believe that the night will last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Not the good or the bad. So you might as well smile while you're here.
If you've got the time, we can play a game. It’s easy. We just see if I’m the same shape as the space you have inside you. If everything fits, we both win. If it doesn’t, don’t force it. That's how you get splinters in your heart.
There's not enough soil in the earth for how deep I want to be buried. There's not enough water in the oceans for how slowly I want to sink. There's not enough fire in the sun for how brightly I want to burn. There aren't enough words in my head to say all the things I can't. There's not enough blood in my body for all I need to bleed. There's aren't enough couches in the world for how long I want to sleep. There's not enough life in me, for all I want to live. All I've had enough of, is you.