8-19-17 1:30pm
When you stare into the eyes of a writer,
You're standing on the event horizon,
Staring into the depths of the universe,
Of all that was,
Of all that is,
Of all that will ever be,
Of all that will never be.
Nothing escapes.
Nothing ever ends.
The mind of the writer takes everything in
And locks it away to the depths
Of his soul, his heart, his mind.
When you kiss the lips of a writer,
You touch the untouchable,
You see what can't be unseen.
You give life to death,
Presence to loss,
Humanity to the inhuman.
That moment becomes frozen in time,
Immune to the inhumane movement of watch hands
As we watch hands
Caress the cheek of a lover,
Fingers reaching the nape of a neck,
Pulling closer to the black hole,
Until nothing exists,
Until nothing exits,
Until the air is ripped from your lungs,
The blood from your mind,
The distance from your embrace.
When you capture the enraptured love of a writer,
you throw yourself,
to the breath of the wind,
to the depths of the ocean,
to the edges of the universe,
to the brink of existence.
You capture his heart
but his heart encapsulates your essence,
the colour of your eyes,
the smell of your clothes,
the warmth of your breath,
the way you nervously bite your lips,
the way you put up walls in self-defense,
the way you always have an escape hatch,
the way you hate to be touched when mad,
the way you want nothing but to be held when mad,
the way you pretend it meant nothing when it means more than life,
the way you break down as tears stream down your cheeks because the love meant more than death.
When a writer loves you,
When a writer kisses you,
When a writer stares at you,
When a writer misses you,
When a writer hates you,
When a writer gets trapped in your gravity,
When a writer finds you,
When a writer loses you,
Just know,
That you have touched the eternal,
That you have found immortality,
That you may never share the same breath of life again,
But you will never not exist to the writer.
The writer takes every moment,
every fight,
every fuck,
every hug,
every embrace,
every kiss,
every eye roll,
every tear,
every punch,
every kick,
every wound,
every hateful stare,
every stair taken hand-in-hand,
up to heaven,
and down to the depths of hell.
The writer takes all of that,
and locks it all away,
stores it up,
shores it up,
puts words to the wordless,
speech to the speechless,
breath to the breathless,
life to the lifeless.
You may be gone.
You may be lost.
You may never share another breath.
You may never share another kiss.
You may never share another fight.
You may never share another fuck.
You may never share another moment together,
but you will always share the moments you had,
You will always have the writer's heart in your hand.
You will always always inhabit a place that no other soul can touch.
You will always hold a portion of the mind dedicated to the immortalization of you,
the memorialization of your times.
The writer will run fingers over every scar,
reliving every slice of your words,
every tear that healed his wounds,
every kiss that took his breath,
every hug the blocked out the world,
every “I Love You” that went unsaid,
every “I Love You” that was a lie,
every “I Love You” that meant nothing,
every “I Love You” that meant everything.
When you lose a writer,
the writer never loses you,
because you exist in multitudes,
in degrees of angles and angels,
in shades of gray,
in worn photographs on a computer screen,
in words written about you,
in words written to you,
in words dedicated to your love,
in words dedicated to your hate,
in words dedicated your your life,
in words dedicated to the death of your love.
When a writer writes about you,
he writes about the fabric of the universe.
He writes about the crossing of time and space.
He writes about the impossible.
He writes about the unimaginable.
He writes about the things that go unsaid.
He writes about the things that you wish you never said.
He writes about the things that words cannot describe.
He writes about the things that built the world.
He writes about the words that tear worlds apart.
He writes about you.
He writes about everything that is not you.
He writes because writing means no matter how far you are,
no matter how long you have gone,
no matter how long silence has atrophied any sense of compassion,
no matter how life has changed never to return to how it was,
you will always exist in his heart,
you will always exist in his mind,
you will always touch his soul and the essence of life itself.
When a writer loves you,
that love never fades,
that love never dies,
that love never ends.
When a writer pens a love letter,
those words will never grace his lips to another,
or fall on ears more deaf than yours.
When a writer writes about you,
he writes about all that was,
he writes about all that could be,
he writes about all that is,
he writes about all that will never be again.
