The truth is…

When I asked you for a Chai latte, what I meant to say was: “I was walking past. I saw you in the window. I only came in here because I had to know what your voice sounded like.”

But instead of saying that, I got really nervous and just ordered the first thing on the menu. I don’t even know what the hoot ‘Chai’ is…or a latte, for that matter.

When God made you, He cussed for the first time. He turned to an angel, gave him a high five and said: “Goddamn, I’m good!”

You are that good looking.

I spent the last five days trying to figure out how I will introduce myself to you properly, and I think I’ve finally figured it out. It’s going to be something like… “Hi.” That’s all I’ve got so far, but I think it’s a good start.

You see, I like that my friends think I’m in love, the crazy kind of love, that reckless kind of love.

That wake-up-early, make-you-breakfast kind of love…

That ‘crack open my life and say look, you gotta see this’ kind of love…

That ‘forget the shallow stuff, I want it deep’ kind of love…

That ‘I want to stay up and tell you all my secrets’ kind of love…

That ‘every time I see you, I fall to pieces’ kind of love…

That ‘you are my destiny’ kind of love…

That ‘no matter what happens, you always get the best of me’ kind of love…

That ‘you get my heart and my mind, this world gets the rest of me’ kind of love…

That ‘invest in me, because you already know that I’m invested in you’ kind of love…

That ‘you come home upset, you don’t have to say nothing, I already know what to do’ kind of love…

I want that love. I want your love.

I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak. And then suck my ex-boyfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure he never comes up in our conversations.

I want you to come to me like an afternoon, come to me slowly as if you were a broken sunset with a lazy sky on your shoulders. If you let me be your sunlight, I promise that I will penetrate your darkness until you speak in angel wings.

Pull me close to you, tell me that you love me, and then scratch your future into my back so I can be everything that you live for.

I promise that I will die for you daily and then resurrect in your screams. I promise that I will love you.

I promise that I will love you as if it’s the only thing that I’ve ever done correctly. I’ll be honest, I’m usually not even a love poet. In fact, every time I try to write about love, my hands cramp. Just so you know how painful love can be. And sometimes my pencils break just to prove to me that, every now and then, love takes a little more work than planned.

See, I heard that love is blind, so I write all my poems in Braille. And my poems, I never actually finish, because true love is endless.

You see, I’ve always believed that real love is kinda like a supermodel before she’s airbrushed. It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.

I said before that I’m not much of a love poet. But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem… It would be about you.

About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike. Scared, but reckless. With no training wheels or elbow pads, so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.

I’m not much of a love poet. But if I was, I’d write about how I see your face in every cloudy reflection in every window.

I’ve written a million poems, hoping that somehow, maybe some way, you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me. Because if you were here right now, I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to. Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name. And you smile like the Pacific Ocean.

If I was a love poet, I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful even on days when everything around you is ugly. I’d write about your eyelashes, and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink. If I was a love poet, I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture every time I hear the vibration in your voice. Or whenever I see your name on the caller ID, my heart… It plays hopscotch inside of my chest. It climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars, and I feel like a child all over again.

I swear, I’m usually not a love poet, but if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem… I swear that it would be about… It would be about you.

Written by Vhar

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