you are the pre-loved book at a thrift shop
that i brought home and finished overnight:
your page torn and worn,
your scent rustic and dusty,
your letters faded,
your story mysterious and unchanged—
you are perfect to me.
you are the feels that comes at three in the morning,
the distant, resonating waves of emotions
that my words cannot describe,
my prose cannot compose,
my imagery cannot capture,
my poetry cannot make to rhyme—
you are every poet’s nepenthe.
you are the strange insatiable craving
at mid-day that wakes me up from my sleep:
the stubborn and persistent hunger for sweetness
that i do not realize i want and need;
the sugar rush i cannot and will not deny myself of.
you are wanderlust:
the plane ticket i spend on,
the simple impulsive delight of travelling,
of finding the extra in what is ordinary,
of closing the days of lonely solitaire.
you are the rain,
the musk of longing and being found
after a season of drought and emptiness:
the refreshing drops of gentle touches,
the reviving torrents of strong embrace,
the satisfying drizzle of sweet kisses,
the quenching downpour of warm love
that reminds of home.
you are my words:
you are the songs i sing through my poems,
you are the grace i dance through my prose,
you are the image i paint through my speech;
you are my writing prompt.