Thursday, February 20, 2014


My hands don't shake anymore. Hope still burns as fiercely, more, even, than before, because the things I once thought impossible are tranpiring. Now we're more than just a smile and a glance away from each other. Now we have words, moments, memories. 

I think of a time when I didn't know you and find the absence of you strange. Was life really different once? Did I care for different things, different people and different dreams? What does that mean for the future? The idea of a time without you is unbearable; I would rather peel the skin from my face and bathe in a sea of salt than take a breath on a day in a life that doesn't involve you. I can't help but be glad that the feeling I had then didn't change. Maybe some feelings, once felt, are felt forever.

There's still a distance between us. Awkwardness and uncertainty cloud judgements and batter our hearts with doubt. You saw me today, were going to say hello, but the idea of pulling me from the pages of Whitman stopped you. You don't know that I would burn all the poetry in the world for another moment with you; any moment. 

It's strange because once you were a phantom, a ghost among bookshelves, a far off photograph - gorgeous on the outside, but showing nothing of the infinity you hold within. And you're a person stepped right out of a fantasy, perfect even with all your imperfections. I knew I was never the type to judge by the superficial, but there are some things I thought would always bother me, put an end to fantasies and hope. And then I met you. You're not perfect, yet your flaws hold you together better than perfect seams. Almost everything I thought of you was true, though smudged now by the reality, the details I got wrong. And I love it anyway. 

My hands don't shake anymore, but I think I found something more profound. I could turn my fingers into bloody stumps writing of you. 

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