It's Just a Poetry Book

21

I can't write anymore. It's as if the sentences don't flow freely from my mind anymore. I have to pry them out, jagged words and clustered sentences that when read don't make any sense. It's as if the dictionary in my head was torn into a million pieces and then scattered about on a burning ash floor, and I have to reassemble the entire English language in order to spit out a single sentence.
I'm not sure why it's harder to write now. Perhaps because all my thoughts are too busy thinking about you. Perhaps because my mind is utterly obsessed with the thought of you, and every single word I try to pronounce ends up as your name. The shape of your name is something my lips could say all day, their letters a drug that my tongue wanted to articulate with every drop of passion in my veins. Your name is a soft misted breath on a winters morning or the heavy sigh after a long summers day. It is a name that I wish I could mention in all my transactional pieces- yet I cannot. Because I am selfish and want you all to myself. I don't want anybody else to say your name like I do. I don't want them to taste it's origins on the back of their throat, I don't want them spit it out like a bad tasting vodka. I don't want them to swallow it down like a welcoming toast of champagne.
You again. I cannot write anything that doesn't involve you.
I feel as if my writing has no meaning if you are not within its chapters, hiding behind scenes, slinking in and out of fullstops and commas, hopping from exclamation mark to question mark. When you're not with me, it's as if the colorful words fade away melancholy and become a faded, sepia print of an old classic that nobody wants to read because it's so predictable. But when I have you, when my lips have recently tasted the sweetness of yours, the motion of your tongue, the feeling of your hands on my skin, it's as if the words spring alive and the pages are blotted with color. It's as if you bring my books alive.
I could write for hours and hours about you. What is not to love? Perhaps when these get published one day, perhaps then everyone can know your name because I will live with the very grateful gift of waking up next to your sleeping body, your breath hot on my neck as you embrace yourself in melodic dreamscapes. I hope the silk sheets twist around your legs comfortingly, mind that my hands can that dry away every tear that you shed out of despair or anger. I hope my mouth can then stop yours from frustration and bad words, and I hope your anxiety will be lowered with the single touch of my hand. Perhaps then everybody can say your name, feel it curve on their lower lip, because they will read all my books about you. All my knotted and twisted pieces of flesh, entwined in the pages of my paper bound life. Perhaps you will read them too, an eager finger curling the top corner of the page, chewing your nails in anticipation of the next sentence, your foot tapping on the tiled kitchen floor as you slurp from your black coffee that I made you alongside some scrambled egg on toast- just the way you liked it, with the onions caramelised and on the side of the plate and not on the egg itself. Your caffeinated thoughts will hop from conclusion to questions as your eyes hang on every word, and I will lean against the kitchen counter, it's granite surface cold on my elbow, and I will watch you with loving eyes at the memory of your young face- ripe with youth and inexperience. Your eyes may still twinkle like they did the day I met you, the same color as the swimming pool water and the towel you lay on. Your hair might then be a little darker, brown with age and flecked with ash, but I will look back and grin at the thought of your blond, silvery hair in the sun rays at noon, your laugh gaping and showing a crooked incisor that was the result of a sporting accident. I will fall in love all over again, watching you read how I fell in love with you first.