Writers are forgetful,
but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.
Writers are forgetful
the important things.
Today I feel like telling you about how I am in love. I am not positive when it happened, and I am sure it happened too fast, but regardless of that, it is possibly the most overwhelmingly wonderful feeling I have ever had the honor of having. It feels like being made of starlight, like being able to breathe underwater, like being able to converse with the moon about what it is like to bring light to a sleeping world. Everything is new and beautiful and simply breathtaking. I smile too much, I laugh for no reason, and I am writing more music than I ever have before. I am in love, and I want to share some of this otherworldly joy with you.
Because of you, the sun has made his home in my chest.
My ribcage embraces his warmth and his rays color my red cells
Transforming them into vessels of pure gold that
Sail effortlessly through the vertical rivers beneath my skin.
I’ve learned how to catch my breath and hold it
Before giving it to you in soft sighs from my half-asleep lungs
When your lips find mine in the quiet morning.
As I exhale, you inhale a bit of the sunlight in me, and
If I look closely I discover golden ripples in your irises,
Minute traces of the light we pass between us.