To the love poems I don’t write.
How do I write you when you’re so painfully broken. Your cracks are hurdles my pens can’t cross. You have burned bridges that lead to your heart. Tell me, how do I write you if you dont feel? How do I write you if you stay this numb. I want you to think, to act, to feel. I cannot drink from a frozen ocean. Your kingdom erupts in fury every second but simmers down the next. I want you to start a war if that’s what it takes to bring yourself back. Do you not want yourself back. Let me write you and show you ways to heal. Screw hospitals, I’ll operate on you myself. I know spells that’ll make you laugh. I know words that’ll take your mind off men. You are love, you have a universe of subjects to shower yourself upon and I’ll show you what’s worth the time. You are oceans of happiness, stop resting by the dry shores of regret. Don’t you remember the days when your volcanoes poured out passion and their lava felt sweet. Let’s ink them back to life. Together. You are everything but heartache. Everything but fractures and holes. You are love, pure and unadulterated. You give, you lose, you give again and you give more. That’s your mechanics, that’s how you work. End this hiatus. Open that void up for public visitation. Fix yourself and let me write you like I used to, with sunshine and mirth.