This is a string of thoughts that are pouring off my tongue because you’re away:
i. When I found you, my eyes became moons that orbited you.
My lips, a choir that sang your praises.
My heart, your heart.
My hands loose ends I tied to you.
ii. When I found you, I dropped like an anchor to your feet.
iii. I have been searching for truer definitions of love since I met you. For 432 days now, I’ve been coming up empty.
iv. You have taught me that happy poets write the worst poetry. And that’s a sacrifice I’ve willingly made.
v. I keep redefining love into something that sounds a lot like you.
vi. You are more than could fit into words or music notes or empty canvases. You are worlds and worlds and I am small and unworthy but I promise to find better ways to immortalize you.
vii. When I found you, I dropped like an anchor to your feet. But you lifted me up and I have been floating ever since, the weight of my chest no longer heavy enough to pull me down.
viii. Love is when you’re certain your lover is incapable of hurting you. Everything else is either lust or like or nothing at all. This is my 431st definition. Still not close enough.
ix. When you are not here, there is no light for my eyes to feed off of. Open or shut they are the same. Darkness inside and outside my eyelids.
x. Love is only love when it is egotistical and full of self-importance. Love is only love when you and I can say this and mean it:
“No one has known love like this. No one has ever loved like this. This is the first love in the history of the world to be felt this purely and intensely.”
This is my 432nd try.
I don’t think I’ll get there.