To the person I fall in love with someday,

And this is how you love as a writer-


There is no cap to contain this spillage, the ink thickening while these feelings you didn’t expect overtake you.


This is a tragedy, you question yourself; you question them; you question if any of this is actually real and your answer comes in the form of the metaphors you’ve just written, your emotions splattered across the page in the most artistic form you could muster.


It almost looks like a mosaic, little pieces of your heart assembled to create an image of the faces of the ones you hold dear to you, or at least wish you could because sometimes it just doesn’t work out that way.


Almost. 


The difference between what you see and what the people who read your work see is they don’t see the process, they see the cracks and they see the blood but they don’t see the amount of times you had to piece yourself back together again.


As a writer, your work is a tourist attraction, a museum of midnight thoughts people who have only ever heard of you in name or may have never heard of you at all can come to learn about your life.


They call it beautiful.


You call it tragic.


Where is the beauty in all of this broken?


You wish you could ask them how they arrived at that conclusion, you wish you could see what they see but you don’t because you know how you got there and cannot be oblivious to the sadness, happiness and fear that some nights feels like it’s etched into your soul so instead, you just keep writing, leaving yourself in each metaphor and simile hoping that one day you can look back on them fondly and hoping they don’t end up as merely another exhibit to be so intensely misunderstood.


To the person I fall in love with someday, this is how I will love you, with every bit of me that I can still manage to present.


So when I write you poem after poem, please bear with me.