See, my very first love had a knack for words.
With each new morning, he’d name the sun something different.
“Honest,”
“Radiant,”
“Languid,”
“Forgiving.”
He had a way of personifying,
bringing forth language to where it could not otherwise
have been preserved.
In light of those honest evenings,
whispering each other velvet words of love,
we’d pause only to listen to our own synchronized breathing.
“You’re melting my heart,” we’d say,
whenever something struck a chord within either of us.
Of course we had meant this figuratively,
but after hearing it repeated a few times,
I began to think of it as a poet would;
raw, and literal.
I mean, it really kept with me,
this idea of someone melting your heart away
until there’s nothing left.
You always hear poets use lines like
“My heart dies for you”
and
“I love you to the moon and back”
“Deep” overused s*** like that.
But I didn’t want to think of it this way.
I wanted always to feel freshness in these words,
the renewal of love each time it’s spoken.
Suddenly I found myself thinking,
at what point did you even allow this to happen?
Allow someone to dissolve through to your bloodstream,
bury themselves so far into your core
only to claw away layer after layer?
I decided I didn’t want to think anymore.