This is my dear is not what you’re expecting.
I’m not going to write about the first time we kissed or the first time you whispered something beautiful into my ears or even the first time we held hands and I swore that the earth shifted under my shoes. I’m not going to write about the first hello or the first goodbye or even the first moonrise I watched reflected in your irises.
I’m not going to write about how your eyelashes are spidersilk and your mouth is a song and how when i was weaving the colours of your eyes into a sunset i got lost in the middle. I’m not going to write about how your fingers pluck symphonies above steaming mugs of tea and how looking you in the face is like holding my breath underwater.
I’m not going to write about that.
Instead, I am going to write about the first time you dragged your hands through your hair and I noticed that your knuckles were scarred from too many fights and how I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. I’m going to write about the time we stood in the kitchen and argued over onions and insecurities, about the moment when you stormed away and told me I was an unpoetic mess, an unholy disaster.
I am going to write about how you smell like smoke and burnt coffee, how your face reminds me of faded photographs and vinyl records. I am going to write about how your nose is crooked and your eyebrows too flat, how you talk too slow and think too fast. I am going to write about the nights i spent sitting in my room waiting for a call that never came, the nights staring at my ceiling waiting for an answer I’m not sure I’ll ever get.
I’m not going to write about falling in love.
No, I’m going to write about crashing into confusion. I’m going to write about frustration and anger and learning the art of impatience. I’m going to write about unraveling and colliding and going up in flames, about striking you across the face, about running barefoot in a hurricane, about cursing your name until i’m hoarse and breathless. I’m going to write about discomfort and annoyance and chaos, about disappointment and anxiety and nerves.
It’s not going to be pretty, darling.
But i’m going to write about us.