I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
So I’ve concluded that there are two types of love.
The first is raging, passionate, wild - the kind you cry over, the kind that songs and movies are written about. You love him so much that he makes you the happiest person alive when you’re with him and makes you want to kill yourself when you lose him. But when he’s gone, he’s gone. The most exquisite memory of happiness.
And then there’s the other kind. It’s not obvious, crazy, beautiful, or inspiring. It’s quiet, tragically understated. The worst part is, you never even know if he was ever yours to lose. But when you do, when you finally lose him, there’s no crying or screaming or anything nearly so dramatic. No - instead, he’s the one who lurks in your subconscious, who haunts you forever, because you’ll never, never know if you really ever meant anything to him.