Today when I woke up,
the first words I choked out
were directed towards his hands
that way when I go,
when my chest opens
up for one last breath,
he can hold the little bit of soul I spill out to him
and then he can choose whether to wipe his hands clean of me
or let my words live in his warmth,
every wrinkle carved into his hands providing a crevice for me to sink in
so that way when he holds his palm out to the sun to shelter his fragile eyes
I can swim up from that puddle of my soul and know I helped cover him
I want him to know
that I gave him every part of me left to give
and that every whisper I ever once said caught onto the winter wind,
drifted to him and found its house in his mind
His red nose a sign that my impact kissed his life
Tell him
that every breath i ever took
and every word i ever sculpted
and every single poem i ever wrote
was too show him that he was my muse to keep going, to finish the line with another word
but too never finish the story with a period
Tell him
that I never wrote a love poem before
but I never really wanted too until I learned that this feeling,
right here, in this hallowed chest of mine, wasn't meant to be hidden and kept to myself.
Tell him
That every time he smiled that this feeling would bounce against my rib cage
creating a vibration of inspiration to tell the world, to let these ideas live in the words of others
so that they too can tell him how much I love seeing him smile.
Tell him
that we are the same when it comes to how we break down to cry, but so so different when it comes to the wrinkles under our eyes.
His lines showing that his age is beyond his years and that my own lines only show that my age is behind mine
Tell him
that these bent knees are meant to be like bent pages
so that when he closes this book
and picks up another,
i'll always be holding his place in my life
So that the day he picks me back up
and opens this cover,
He'll see my heart pressed like a flower
as an offer for him to pluck from these dusty pages
Tell him
That love isn't just four letters and one syllable
but a span of a the lifetime of impressions he leaves on my life.
Love is a poem that a girl with bent knees wrote to surrender her feelings,
Tell him
That even if and when he decides to move on to the next chapter, I'll always have this poem to capture this feeling called love that he pressed into my life.