Updated: Dec 10, 2019
He told me I write too many sad love poems. He said it in the tone I became accustomed to, the one that stretched the distance between us until I had discovered my own island; bountiful in seedlings and sturdy in her roots.
"Well, sometimes I feel sad" I'd reply.
I always wanted to explain myself; I always pushed for him to see. I'd pull out my map and as the words would fall from my lips, I began leading him into the mountains, alongside the sweet daffodils florescent on the cliffside, onto the hidden pathway that grew straight into the center of it all and up to the sovereign moon in all her loveliness.
Standing on the edge of the bluff, hand in hand, below a darkened sky illumined with starlight, I realized you couldn't see what lie before you. Like two lovers from foreign lands, my language was not native to yours; as much talking as we could do, you would never understand me.
How couldn't you see, young boy, that those poems I was writing were never about past lovers or remnants from last night's dreams, but were me trying to talk to you, in a language I was hoping only you could read?
But you weren't reading.
I was already gone.