𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 » 𝐩 𝐨 𝐞 𝐭 𝐫 𝐲

𝐡𝐢𝐦

An artist or art himself?
A poet or a poem himself?
What is he?
He was a poet,
But more so like a poem to me.
But not the one created in a hurry.
He's art, a masterpiece.
Not created while chasing one's thoughts before they disappear into nothing.
He was created by the best of the best.
Each stroke, each word had been chosen carefully.
He was meant to be read, to be remembered and to be cherished forever.
I want to call him my baby, and then watch him fumble with his words
My heart physically aches by how much I yearn to hold him.
What hurts more is that he'll never read this.
Loving him, wanting him hurts so good
I'll never know him the way I want to.
I'd carve out pieces of myself to feed him.
My heart beats for him. It bleeds for him. He is the ending of every beginning I've ever made.
He's the beginning of all my ends.
He's not a part of me,
Yet he still complete me
He's so fine, too bad he's not mine.
I couldn't tell him, so
I told the stars about him
I crave to peel off his layers, and to see the bare, real him
I don't want to just pass by him,
Like the wind,
I want to stay,
Like his shadow
I want to bind myself to him.
But one day, I'll forget him too.

~Pearl