the spark that all poets know,
chase syllables for lifetimes
in order to describe it…
The beauty and ache of knowing,
of breathing in another to hold
an essence inside until it becomes words.
I loved you without touching you,
our maps never crossed for
you hid in the dark too long.
But words are oblivious,
able to travel without light
and touch us across time.
And I may not know
the ether you swam in,
I was among my own phantoms,
wondering if those nameless
monsters mirrored your own.
Maybe I was too young then,
but something in me loved you.
There was no map to guide me,
but I knew this in the same way
you spoke in languages that could
break and mend my young heart.
There’s a painful permanence in knowledge,
in marks too delicate to make with blades,
and yours trespassed in ways
that I confess to no one.
Something blossomed in your eyes,
the spark that one only exudes
when they’ve seen true darkness
and were able return, if only
long enough to grace us with light.
With words that travelled across time’s fabrics,
seep into and remain in the deepest chambers,
I wish you had never been alone in yours,
in the afternoon you wore your mother’s coat,
poured a final glass of crystalline vodka
and left without saying goodbye.
You had been leaving the notes for years,
incremental hidden farewells typed,
I was too young then to understand.
I could chase languages
for a lifetime to describe it,
to shape your singularity
in a way that can be read,
heard like a distant familiar song
can be felt like warm brailled flesh.
But a part of me is jealous,
wishes to keep the beauty
and ache of knowing to myself.
To breathe you in,
hold your secret safe inside
until words can help me let go.
Until I know how to say I loved
without ever touching you.
