“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.”

— adapted from “I WROTE THIS FOR YOU: Just The Words” 

I was literally like Jackie Kay. I dressed for phone calls that never came, spent time imagining the worst (and sometimes, exceedingly, the best) that could happen, stared at the only photo I had.

I bought myself this book that was divided into different sections, of poetry based on different themes. Great – there were “Despair”, “On Dying” , “On Love Lost” – I brought it to the cashier, paid for it, left. I created playlists full of vexed hip-hop, hostile rap, pop artists who grotesquely echoed “fuck you bitch!”, over and over again. I turned off my cellphone, was able to shut the world out. I spent nights writing lines for people who didn’t give a flying fuck…

Today, I pick up the same book of poems, discovering “On Hope”, “On Being in Love”, “On Love Found”. Great – I pick out the loveliest verses from these sections – have them marked, beaming as I read them over and over again. Yesterday, I skipped (and cleared) those playlists oozing with pique. Never did I care about the sweet-nothings in the songs that made me partially delusional. I bathed in the sunshine on my way home, I danced, I swayed to the beat of Stevie Wonder’s “For Once In My Life“. I can’t leave my cellphone now, for now I can hope that it rings – and it actually rings. (Did I mention I grew to adore tables-for-two?) And the best thing is I spend nights hearing the voice that makes things seem brighter, that makes me smile as if I’m boxed out of my mind, bearing in mind that this isn’t love, but could be. Well, I may not return the same amount of happiness that has been given to me, but I’ll try to!

At least nowadays I feel like Rossetti – I wish I could remember that first day, first hour, first moment of your meeting me (except I would really love to change the way we met – better it up, perhaps). If only I could recall that touch, first touch of hand in hand – did one but know!


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