When I wrote her love songs,

you cried

because they were

“Just that good.”

And I was falling

and falling

and falling.

And when I wrote my heartbreak,

cracked stars open to peek inside

in search of some kind of light

in the darkness I was dipping into,

you called me

and we stayed up until midnight

talking about everything and everything.

 

The first poems I ever wrote

were about things I thought poetry was meant to be about.

I talked about love like roses

wilting in the maze I trapped myself in.

(I was an 11 year old who’d never seen a maze.)

and I wrote about sadness

of the wise and weary

lost in a world that pressed me too thin.

(And you read them all even if they didn’t always make sense.)

 

When you fell in love for the first time,

I wrote you an ode to love.

I was so happy

when you started writing poetry about your boyfriend too.

That was two years ago and I still write love poems

about how you look when you fit your hands together,

about how the light I’ve always seen within you

shines a little bit brighter

when he’s here too.

That doesn’t mean I don’t write about us too though

because when you say you’ve got two soulmates,

I can’t help but wholeheartedly agree.

And when we sat quietly in your car

after a bad day

(a bad month)

(a bad year),

listening to the breeze winding through

the long and empty streets of my neighborhood,

I wrote you love

because I never want you to feel alone

when darkness presses down on you.

I remember how addictive it can be

to take a sip of sadness and convince yourself

you can never taste again.

While our friends dropped like flies around us,

while your boyfriend fell apart from stress

and I fell apart because of how I was stitched together,

you cried alone because you’re so used to sorrow

being what you read about

from others.

But I’m here and I didn’t mean to make you think

that I was too far gone that I couldn’t piece myself together

enough for you too.

 

The latest poems I’ve written

were about things I think my life has always been about.

I see shadows in my stance.

I look back and I can trace the rises and dips

of an unrecognized mental illness I refused to acknowledge

intertwining with the words I wrote.

When I wrote you a sad song,

you always listened.

I’m here to hear your sad songs too.

 

I am writing recovery now.

For the both of us.

I’m writing hope and happiness

because I’m tired of both of us forgetting

that even on the darkest days,

the Sun is still there

and even in the smoggiest of cities,

the stars are still shining.

We both know

I’ve got a problem.

(Because I’ve found denial doesn’t cure disorders.)

We both know

you’ve got one too.

(Because when tragedy hits, sometimes depression bites too.)

 

I used to write of loneliness.

But even when I wrote that,

you read those too.

You’ve always been here,

crying and laughing and loving.

We’ve always been here,

living and breathing and surviving.

My darkest poems

are evidence that

we’ve made it through worse.

My brightest poems

are evidence that

better days are coming.

I’ll always be here for you,

writing and reading and loving.