I wrote poetry a million times,
And poetry wrote me.
Subdued within the highlights of a daydream
I found myself staring at the lights
Waiting for my knight in shining armor to come by.
I journaled countlessly for many days that crossed a fortnight,
Digging deeper into the ether,
Holding a candleless flame to the paper,
Pulling spectacles over the bridge of my nose
To see closer,
The cursive looked to be on fire and my eyes glided over the music.
Sweet whispers, who would write a song for love?
Why must love be so elusive?
Hold the letter in my hands,
Yet I still have not grasped it,
Read the words,
Yet I still have not understood it.
Can sparks fly?
I’ve seen the beauty of the “matchstick ending”
Light a dying ember and cast it away for someone else to revive,
But that’s the rub,
We grasp hot coals and drag black char through the mud,
Perhaps love is not a fire like we once believed it to be so,
For with no one to maintain the hearth, we all become martyrs.
Is there excitement in seeing us go up in flames?
I’d rather believe that love is a soft earthquake that every heart comes home to,
For amiss the chaos there is always stillness,
For we can always become whole again from the broken,
For love, is just faith persevering.