Recovery

If You Don't Love Words, Don't Love Me - I.C

You'll probably think this poem is about you, and maybe it is. But it won't mean a damn thing. Because to you words are just words, just black ink on crumpled pages, wasted breaths between each touch. Words had no power, you spoke, just pity for the weak. You said, if someone wanted something they had to work for it, not write for it. So my love letters went unseen, tucked into journals I hid from you. Birthday cards, secrets on notes, goodnight text messages, they all stayed away like the books on the shelf. Our i love you's were lost in translation, stuck between cold kisses and stiff hand holding. I wrote in secret, my pens stayed silent, my ink bled warm. Every dash and line had spelled out your name, in ways of color, of life. Ways you'd never see, because when you read my writing all you saw was black and white. You never open a book of beauty, a world of rainbow, a city of lights and twinkle. My words were just words, there was no story, no pretty little poetry. To you that didn't exist, so our fairytale ending couldn't either.