Updated: Sep 1
I want to write you a sonnet except I don't know the grammatical structure of one or if it follows a set of rules at all. I don't really care right now to look it up since all I want is to express this to you. That's all I ever want. want. you.
The only times I feel myself breathing is when I'm with you. Scientific understanding eludes me, yet here we are reality fraying at the edges to fit the catalyst of your voice. If all my cells have regenerated since childhood then without a doubt your essence has seeped into mine. The mysterious recipe the universe keeps for each person ours mixed, blended through osmosis, molecules so tight a separation would be of atomic consequence.
Outside of us I'm tense and a thousand pounds heavy or so light I float high above the swirling clouds of this boring existence. But your hand in mine acts like a tether, my feet touch solid ground as we walk together. That rhymed! do sonnets rhyme? Why does everything else feel like work except you? I must confess at times I've felt guilty about my willingness to disappear in your gaze. Then you gaze and the oceans horizon blurs infinite, unashamed of its eternal kiss with the sky.
I know I am me because of you. You are also you because of me.
I can be brave whenever somber thoughts of losing you fill me sober. But I know I'm fooling myself. I have felt the tight grip of your absence, a pain particular and inescapable. I'm dreadingtheday, dreadingtheday.
Love is painted by a brush made of grief. The understanding that nothing lasts forever so this high feels sweet and like sand falling through desperate fingers. I want to hold on to you this version of you even though a part of me can't wait for the next version of you and I miss the old you as well. Just you, all of you. Forever worthy of a better sonnet.