I love you.
I do.
Why wouldn’t I?
I write because of you.
I write of you.
You are what I write about when I run out of wonders. That your smile is the reason so many wake up every sunrise and decide it’s worth slogging through another day, just to get to another night. The hours of pain and lostness, the months of cluelessness and the years of anonymity are worth it- because they all have your companionship embedded inside them.
I write about the story every fibre of your being weaves itself to tell. I write because you’re a story yourself. Your words have touched someone’s heart, made hundreds of faces smile and laugh till their stomach pains.
I write about how you’re worthy of love even if you can’t reach that unimaginable goal you set for yourself. So that look at yourself with love tonight before you hit your pillow, because if you need a little reminder of what you’re capable of, you should know you being in the same lane as a scared stranger being followed by prying eyes probably saved their life.
I write about you because your friends would die for you if it came to that even if they cant express how much you mean to them. Because the little boy on the road still remembers the packet of eclairs you gave him on your way back home from school. Because the stranger on your bus you always smile and nod at prays for your safety and happiness every night.
I write because you’re human – you are the only and all the magic I can confirm.
Your ‘average existence’ is a muse for us writers who on days when hope leaves us be, look at you and realise we have all the inspiration we need. If you don’t live, my darling, my pen will run dry.
Because when I’m done writing odes to the moons and stars and how the sun shines and how the earth mothers her flowers and lands, I will look to you. Your brevity is what my pen and heart- both latch on to. The hidden dreams, perfection and grandiosity in your ordinary days inks my pen. I write because of how your mind works and how you talk. How you feel and how you love. How you will be surprised to know how much a mere human’s somewhere-lost, somehow-incomplete story means to literature.
It is all we really are.
It is all we’ve ever been.
So if you forget your need here, I promise I will find you one day so I can hold your face in my hands. You will be able yo see what I mean when my eyes reflect back the love you have been craving for eternity. Because without your very imperfect humane traits I wouldn’t be able to personify any of the inanimate stars. All the moons would stop shining as bright as they do when I stop comparing them to you. It must be so very hard to believe, you beautifully ordinary nobody reading this. It must be so hard to wrap your wonderfully mysterious, self-critical mind around this fact.
The fact of how much of a somebody you really are.
There would be no escapism without your wanderlust eyes trapped in a drudgery, there would be no art without your mundane. There would be no alliterations and metaphors, no meanings between the lines without the times you cried yourself to sleep. There would be no music without your crooked laughter and untimely giggles, there would be no passion without your anger. I promise you I mean this from the bottom of my heart when I say, that there would be no poetry without you.
How could there be?
Poetry and you are one and the same.
It is but your other name.