I started with this one day after the day I spent two hours watching slam poetry, two days before my Sociology exam and thirteen days before three hundred and sixty six days with you (so basically my three hundred and fifty third day with you, yay maths). The title is more of a warning, proceed with caution, it gets cheesier with every word (apologies).
I started by tackling this question: how do you describe a person you can’t really describe? I pride myself on accurate descriptions but you, sir, are the one person who really stumps me. Then I thought about what I could say to you, but then again, what do you say to a person you’ve already said everything to? By that time, I already had my mind set on writing this so there was no turning back because you once told me not to quit when I do start writing something. So then I came up with this: 27 things I could’ve said a bit more poetically. Kind of.
One. Since yesterday was slam poetry day, here goes: I’m not a love poet and I don’t like to read a lot of love poetry or listen to a lot of spoken word about love but my god, every time I heard Rudy Francisco describe his love for the person he met at Starbucks this one time, my mind nodded in agreement (quite vigorously, might I add) and put those words in one box labeling it “THINGS I CAN NOT SAY AS WELL AS REAL POETS CAN BUT THINGS I TOTALLY MEAN”. Point is, you make me love a lot of things to a certain magnitude I never thought I would but then again, I never imagined I would love you as much as I do, simply because I didn’t think I was capable of it.
Two. I have weird associations in my brain that connect the smallest day to day things with you. I could walk down the street and a small word in a weird font that is hardly legible would sneak into my brain, hop from association to association till it finally reaches you. I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re always on my mind.
Three. I love you. Simple as that.
Four. Everything sounds better in my head. I find it difficult to form clear and concise sentences, my words lose their meaning halfway through my phrases, I repeat a lot of things but I’m afraid the words will detach themselves from what I’m trying to say. Basically, I say weird things sometimes and they really do sound better inside my head but my words find meaning when I am around you and when they are about you. My words would like to thank you for that.
Five. I read. A lot. As much as I can of everything I can get my hands on. Reading has been my favourite thing to do since I was five years old but hear this, my favourite thing to read isn’t even a book. Black ink on white paper in the simplest font defined true beauty for me until I noticed every single line and curve that defines your body.
Six. You brush your fingers against my arm and the trail that your fingertips leave makes my skin erupt into tiny goosebumps. Neurons send messages up my spine to my brain that both make me very excited and ask me to calm the fuck down. I can’t calm the fuck down with you around.
Seven. I love winter mornings when I reach school with freezing hands and I can press my nose against your cheek to make you jump. I love how warm you always are, my hands would like to thank yours for being the reason my writing was legible when I wrote in my notebook during the first class of the day, human heater.
Eight. How do I explain to you how I feel when I can not get an answer out of you. To be very honest, usually, I would stop. If it were anybody else I would stop. But with you, I gain the ability to do a lot of stuff but I also lose the ability to do a lot of stuff. I promise you one thing that I’ve always promised you. I am not trying to fix you. I’m never going to try and fix you. Your sea of chaos is beautiful and I love it the way it is. How do I explain to you how I feel when I sit in a room full of people with dazed eyes simply because I could not figure out why you didn’t want to talk to me.
Nine. I’m considering showing you this less and less with every single word I write. It gets cheesier, yes, but I need you to understand something I think you do already understand. There is a raw feeling behind this and this is basically me, standing bare in front of you with all my thoughts on a plate, right out and I’ve given you a loaded gun and asked you to go ahead and shoot.
Ten. I know you won’t shoot. You know how I know? Because the first time I begged for a cigarette, you refused. I can only imagine how hard it is to say no to an extremely annoying and drunk sixteen year old hanging off of your arm. Thank you.
Eleven. I know I am not supposed to but thank you. When I had an anxiety attack at my doctor’s a few weeks ago, it felt somewhat like someone was choking me. I couldn’t breathe properly, I could feel the oxygen go in but my lungs refused to take them, my nails were bitten to my cuticles, raw and red from the blood and you, you were my first breath of fresh air. Your laughter worked better than any medicine ever had and soon, I was breathing easy again.
Twelve. I know I will get the wind knocked out of me again, I know I will someday drown underneath a burden of salt water and piles of papers, I know someday my lungs will once again refuse to take in the oxygen and I know someday, someday my head will spin so fast and my body will collide with the ground and shatter, blood and bone and I will want to scream so loud but I won’t be able to find my voice. I also know that that will be the day I will look into my phone for your number again. But for now, I’m breathing easy, I have you by my side.
Three. I love you. I don’t think any other collection of twenty six alphabets can describe more beautifully what I really truly feel for you.
Thirteen. When you held my hand for the first time and laced your fingers through mine, I could feel a different kind of warmth spread through my body. It was the kind of warmth that you feel on cold winter mornings, sitting in front of a fire. As soon as you move away from the fire, the warmth retreats, as soon as you take your hand away from mine, the warmth retreats.
Fourteen. Let me tell you about something we refer to as ‘butterflies’. I used to think butterflies were just something Meg Cabot made up and girls never do feel that in real life. But when you kissed me, I swear to god, I could feel five million butterflies fluttering around in my stomach and they really haven’t left since. I think they like it there, I do hope they continue to like it there.
Fifteen. I wonder if there is a word for a male muse. That is what you are. You see, why should artists only have a woman who inspires them? If I were to really describe what you mean to me, I would start with the profound effect you have had on the way I see the world. With you around I see things in different shades entirely. You, my dear, are the reason I could ever give voice to my thoughts.
Sixteen. I know now what it is like to near a deadline. Four hours away from my three hundred and sixty sixth day with you an all I can think is that I need to get this done. I have never before more desperately run my fingers across the keyboard, never before understood the urgency of a ticking clock but I think, I think the only thing that will make me rediscover this urgency in a manner even more desperate will be my realisation of the last few days that I will spend with you right before you say goodbye.
Seventeen. It is going to be hard to let go of you. I have accepted that and I think you have too, but does acceptance lessen a blow? You can prepare and prepare and prepare yourself for something your whole life but the final blow would hurt just as much even then. I don’t think I will ever be ready maybe that is why Christmas, 2024 is a plan. Maybe that is why I will look forward to Christmas 2024 with every breath I take after you say goodbye. You will be my Christmas miracle.
Eighteen. How did we get here? I remember last year. No, I remember the year before that. I remember hating myself for hating you but I also remember hating myself for loving you so damn much that I, with all of my ‘boys don’t matter’ attitude, was reduced into spluttering girly mess of ‘Will he ever text me back?’. Thank you for always texting me back.
Nineteen. Thank you for making me trust again. You see, after my first failed relationship, all I could think was “I am never trusting or loving a boy too much again, not for a very long time. It is of no use.” But there you were, in all your glory, dark hair and piercing eyes and the cutest goddamned smile I had ever come across and soon enough I could feel myself loving harder and faster than I had ever before.
Three. Which reminds me, I love you.
Twenty. You just asked me where I reached at Fairy Tail and I lied to you and said I am out buying Subway. I am sorry, but please laugh when you read this after 3 hours and 41 minutes, alright? (Side note: thanks for making me fall in love with Fairy Tail, I adore it. I have become an even bigger nerd because I can now add “anime” to the list of things I love) (Side note for the side note: you top that list).
Twenty One. If there is one thing that I want to apologise for, it is for getting too cheesy, if I did (I definitely did). I just feel that there is no other medium where I can describe my thoughts as well as I can here, in this manner, no other way in which I can let you know your importance for me. I know I don’t do it too well here either but I tried (get me the badge). Please don’t run away. I’m trying not to be too creepy. I don’t think you scare easy though, you’ve seen all bad parts of me.
Twenty Two. I’ll let you in on a secret. When I was ten years old, I started taking my writing seriously (or about as seriously as a ten year old can take her writing) and a few years after that I promised myself I would never ever write about love. I told myself that people who wrote about love were absolute “wusses” and you know, basically lifeless idiots with nothing to do but make one person the centre of their universes. I promised myself that there was no room for love poetry. I think that is the only promise I have made to myself and felt happy about breaking because-
Twenty Three. I am so glad to have made you the centre of my being. You see, people who write about love aren’t idiots, well maybe they are, but they’re idiots capable of seeing the world in a new light. If I could really write about love, I would write about how when I kiss you I can taste my dreams and how when you hold me, I know what true comfort really means. I would write about the galaxies I would paint for you in different shades of blue and red and yellow (but I can’t paint) and I would write about every edge so sharply defined by your skin and bone.
Three. So, there, I’m saying it again. I love you.
Twenty Four. I don’t repeat three because I run out of things to say, or as a filler for the gaps between my words, I say three because I can say it over and over again and I feel the need to make sure you hear it enough from me in this one piece of writing than anybody can say to you in a lifetime.
Twenty Five. I am selfish. I am selfish enough to always want you all to myself, I am selfish enough to want to be at the back of your mind all the time, I am selfish enough to want be spoken as the girl who mattered, I am selfish enough to want to be the person you think of ten years down the line once again simply because you came across something maybe I had once mentioned to you, I am selfish enough to want your love, I am selfish.
Twenty Six. I have galaxies inside my head that have space only for you, a thousand shooting stars that I would wish on and wish only for you, there are a thousand words that I could say to you and I could rearrange these twenty six alphabets over and over and over again but I would still run out of ways to express what you truly mean to me.
Twenty Seven. These are the twenty seven things I wish I could have said more poetically but speaking from the mind of a sixteen year old with hardly any writing experience, I don’t think words could have flowed more smoothly from the roughness of my tongue and the coarse surface of my brain that lacks the creativity I wish I possessed and I really really did try. I do hope you like it.
Three. So, once again, I love you.