Every single day, I open my Word file, waiting for the words to come. A poem is burning to be born, but I cannot begin to tell my fingers to type.
I used to swim in oceans so deep, so full of stories about love. That was, until, I screamed. To you. For help. The water filled my lungs and the very water that I created choked me and cut the very air I breathed and you? You did nothing to save me. I came up to the surface instead, got drunk in a liquor called music, and laid wasted in a beach full of art until the sun came up. That first night, I tried to wipe myself dry by jumping around the island, shaking every droplet of you into every leaf that needed you more than I did.
The next few days were peaceful. I simply stared into the sea that used to be me. Sometimes I would come up to the shore and feel the shallow water wash my feet, reminding me of how much I used to love you.
Ah, but did I love you? When the waves left and the water crept into my ankles, was it you whom I missed? Or was it the poems I’ve written? The words I can’t seem to find now?
I am afraid of drowning into another sea of poems, because as I forget how to breathe, as my hearts unevenly, I see nothing but your face – the inspiration to every letter I have ever written, to every sonnet, every paragraph.
I dig my feet hard into the sand, gritting as I force myself to forget the feel of the cool water on my soles. Being stuck on land, surrounded by you – or, remnants of you – I curse myself. Why can’t I have thrown the poems to the sky and turned them into stars? It would have been easier to avoid. I can always live looking down. Why must I have condensed my words into water? Being in an island surrounded by you, too afraid to swim in you, too afraid to drink you in.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to relish in how my every word of you bathed me, embraced me, nourished me, like an infant in a mother’s womb. I swam deep into the idea of your existence. I lived to see every flawed coral living inside you, every living school of fish spinning around you. I loved it. I loved you – or, the idea of you.
Here I am now, alone in this island. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. The worst part is that you are all I see – just a vast stretch of ocean full of what we were, and what we could have been.
I am 70 percent filled of you, and the 30 percent in me hates it. It tries to pull out every ounce of you through the tears ducts in my eyes, one drop at a time. Yet, no matter how much I cry, you are a part of my survival, and I have no choice but to let you back in. I drink you in tentatively, afraid that the way my breath stutters at the thought of you will make the water travel in the wrong pipe.
Here I am now, alone in this planet. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. And I’m writing this poem, taking a sip of you once again. I am 70 percent filled of you, and I cry you out, but drink you in again. Maybe I was never made to live in an ocean full of you. Maybe . You were made to pour yourself into the world, and I was made to beg for the little that you could give.
But every day, I open my Word file, waiting for the words to come. And it comes in tiny droplets.