Loving him was never something i could contain in colors, verses, or sketches.
He was beyond the reach of my creativity — beyond what my hands could write or my mind could shape. I think, even God, would agree that for once, he made something too extraordinary to be translated.
My favorite flowers could never hold a candle to him. Even Sylvia Plath with all her precision, would have been left grasping at metaphors of what he made me feel like. He was the kindness in a world that had long forgotten to be soft. I think, even when universe is at its cruelest day, would want to be gentle just to stay in his very orbit.
I had never known love to be kind until him. I couldn’t imagine what it’s like to receive something so safe and gentle that it rewrites the way pain sits in my bones — because i spent years training the world to look away from my grief. I always sweep my sadness under the rug and convince everyone it had never been there.
But he must have learned to read in the dark. He must have studied braille with his fingertips against my skin, because he never needed to be told where it hurt.
He was all that, and i could write about him forever. I could tell you a thousand stories and never repeat a single one. And even if i spoke in the plainest language, i know the truth of him would still stand that he was real, and close to being my everything.
But love, is never without consequence. He was the courage i had forced myself to find, and then, the very thing that took it away.
The world didn’t end when he left. The sky didn’t fall, the oceans didn’t rise, but something in me collapsed.
I didn’t die when he disappeared without a door left open. I still moved through my days, still spoke when spoken to, still existed in the way people expected me to.
But existing is not the same as living.
And i think i have yet to learn the difference again.
