5.22.25 // I Used to Write Poetry

I used to write poetry.
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I would spill my thoughts, feelings, and words onto my keyboard, often unable to type fast enough to capture the softness of poetic expression pouring out of me.
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I'll never forget the first few times I shared poems that all began the same way: " I think about you. Do you think about me too?" I would yearn, feel, and hold nothing back, letting myself share words that felt like secrets- taboo truths, sentences I'd be too scared to say out loud.
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I wrote and wrote and wrote. New ideas came to me, and old ones resurfaced.
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I let the visions in my mind play out through my fingers. I was unafraid. I didn't analyze my words​- I simply existed, and creativity existed beside me. There was no grasping, no desperate plea for soft, romantic curiosities to take shape.
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I didn't worry about how my poems would be perceived or analyzed. I didn't think about the narratives that might be formed from the illusions and stories in my mind, knowing, even then, that the words were often unrooted daydreams - real only in the way clouds are real when you try to hold them.
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I know that my writing has changed. Life has changed. There's a heaviness in each stroke of the keys. The stories of the past few years that call to be told are steeped in reflection. My core feels more exposed as I dig and peel away the layers, trying to find the essence of the person writing these words.
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But I know I'll meet that poetic spirit again- the unabashed, hopeless romantic daydreamer, her rose-colored glasses barely transparent. The part of me who yearns, who hungers, who follows pleasure as her guide without shame or fear.
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She hears me whispering her name, and smiles when I speak it- sweet as honey on my tongue. The call to her is natural, sensual. She feels it. But like a flower emerging after winter's slumber, she will arrive when she is ready.