Tonight, I really wanted to write you the most beautiful poem.
I wanted to tell you how the stars only shine for you
and how the ocean went quite in your absence.
But instead, I looked at the darkness around me,
waiting for some inspiration.
And nothing came.
I stare at this emptiness within myself. Confused.
How is it, that I’m feeling so much, and yet nothing.
How is it, that my love for you is burning brighter than ever, and yet nothing.
How is it, that the thought of your lips against mine leaves me breathless, and yet nothing.
Tonight, I’m drunk, and I want to be a poet.
I want to find the words to tell the world how vibrant the moon is tonight,
and how empty my bed feels without you.
I want to write a poem that will speak to all the empty souls missing their other half tonight. But nothing.
No beautiful metaphor, no smart comparison, no cheeky litotes.
Just meaningful silence. Heavy silence, painful silence.
Tonight, I am the silent poet.
Missing my other half.
Staring at the moon, at the darkness.
Prisoner of the night, counting the stars.
I surrender to the obscurity,
waiting for the first lights to set me free,
to bring me closer to you, to us.
To your lips.
Tonight, I wanted to write you a poem.
I wanted to tell you about how the stars only shine for you,
and about how the ocean went quite in your absence.
But instead, I lost myself amongst my words,
stumbled around the corners of this piece of writing,
hoping that my sober self will fix this mess.
Or not. I shall see tomorrow morning.