“i want to write” i whisper,
my voice heavy-
i haven’t written in a month.
okay, write about me”
“what about the ocean?” i ask,
i look into her stormy eyes,
im tired of romanticising everything-
nothing is as pretty as I’d like to think it is.
“write about the ripples,”she whispers as she watches the horizon, “they’re calming”
“yeah but… yeah they are. ”
she calms me
she remind me of how the ocean does the same but,
i think that’s only true because of how the ocean here has undertones of a dark murky green-
the same ones her eyes have.
i could tell her anything and i know,
the only thing she’d do is wrap her tiny frame around mine,
hold me till im done crying,
look me in the eye and say
“it’s okay, im here”
she looks at me,
tells me I’m beautiful but doesn’t feel the same about herself,
I don’t think she understands that I’m tired of writing of things because they seem more beautiful on a page than they actually are but
i can’t even write the smallest bit of her beauty into my work,
her tiny frame has more power than this ocean regardless of what others might say and
she calms me down more than one could ever.
“write about me
here you go,
i wrote one for you,
thank you for making me and making me write this poem too.