Skyless constellations

perhaps i shouldn't have written about you

you said you wanted me to write you—something, anything.
but i am here: wordless.
as if i've never known how to play with metaphors and rhymes,
as if i've never once written a single paragraph.
you halt the art i've spent most of my life creating
and it scares me to think—
i need to be hurt first
before i could finally translate you in my poetry.

———

there are days i do try to write about you. each time was the same, i stumble on to nothing. it's a mystery how i can't seem to write you down. i should be creating beautiful imageries of how much affection i hold for you, but i keep running out of words. i try to convince myself maybe it's because you're a different love; a different feeling; or simply because i've never written something for someone and then explicitly tell them it's about them. for such a long time, i was used to keeping my letters of affection to myself— they never really reach anyone. maybe that's why i find it so hard to not contain it only for my own consumption.

if i do try to muster even the most ordinary words to write about you, maybe it would go as: you're the love i didn't ran away from. it was the first time i didn't deny myself of feeling what i really felt. it's my first to gather enough courage to set all my fears away— that even if it may hurt me one day, it'll be fine, because that would mean i got to live you before the hurt; you're the love where i want to be most vulnerable and at ease with— even if i am still trying to; you're the love i want to know so well, that doubts won't even cross my mind— because i know that i know you.

i am well aware of how fleeting things are, and that they're inevitable. sometimes they scare me but to hell with uncertainties, what matter is the moment we have now. and i, could live with that.