ader

dead poets

her poetry is written on the ghost of trees, whispered on the lips of lovers.

as a little girl, she would drift in and out of libraries filled with dead poets and their musky scent. she held them in her hands and breathed them in—wanting so much to be part of their world.

it wasn't long before Emily began speaking to her, then Sylvia and Katherine; their voices rang in unison, haunting and beautiful. they told her one day her poetry would be written on the ghost of trees and whispered on the lips of lovers.

but it would come at a price.

there isn't a thing i would not gladly give, she thought, to join my idols on those dusty shelves. to be immortal.

as if reading her mind, the voices of dead poets cried out in alarm and warned her about the greatest heartache of all—how every stroke of pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again.

what is the cause of such great heartache? she asked. they heard the keen anticipation in her voice and were sorry for her.

the greatest heartache comes from loving another soul, they said, beyond reason, beyond doubt, with no hope of salvation.

it was on her sixteenth birthday that she first fell in love. with a boy who brought her red roses and white lies. when he broke her heart, she cried for days.

then hopeful, she sat with a pen in her hand, poised over white sheet, but it refused to draw blood.

many birthdays came and went.

one by one, she loved them and just easily, they were lost to her. somewhere amidst the carnations and forget-me-nots, between the lilacs and mistletoe—she slowly learned about love. little by little, her heart bloomed into a bouquet of hope and ecstasy, of tenderness and betrayal.

then she met you, and you brought her dandelions each day, so she would never want for wishes. she looked deep into your eyes and saw the very best of herself reflected back.

and she loved you, beyond reason, beyond doubt, and with no hope of salvation.

when she felt your love slipping away from her, she knelt at the altar, before all the great poets—and she begged. she no longer cared for poetry and immortality, she only wanted you.

but all the dead poets could do was look on, helpless and resigned while everything she had ever wished for came true in the cruelest possible way.

she learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands—hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.