let me tell you a love story
that was never written down.
the kind of song you don’t hear
the poem you don’t read.
was a telescope
pointed toward the heavens
and sang the blues like it could close the hole in her soul.
was an amalgamation of broken heartstrings,
patched up pieces of rusted iron
meant to make a man.
they met and the sparks that flew could have lit the milky way
like opposite ions they formed a bond
with little knowledge on how it could be broken.
(if it could be broken)
knew him before his hand first touched her shoulder
drawn to his fire
like weary travelers seek warmth in the cold.
looked at her and saw the stars she would one day sit amongst
and fell in love with the nebulas he found in the freckles on her cheeks
she crashed into him like waves on a shore
and he caught her up in his arms
the way that great cliffs do with storms
and held her tight against the winds that threatened
to tear her apart
was a writer, and a poet, and a singer
and gave him her words and her love and her heart
was a builder, and a carver, and a worker
and gave her pieces of himself he had rebuilt
to be suitable for her to hold.
he held her in the way that a giant holds a bird with a broken wing
with all the tenderness he could muster
careful not to ruffle bent and beaten feathers
and she wrapped her arms around him
in the steady way
that a mother holds her newborn child.
loved him the way sisters love brothers
and long-lost friends love favorite trees
ever-present in the background of lives that were lived on
loved her in the way that flowers love the sun
ever eager for more
ever needing her light.
for every heart he carved out of rock and stone
there were flowers left on his doorstep
for every night spent cold and alone
there were whispers in the wind that sounded like promises
was a carefree piece of love
dancing away on the backs of breezes and young men
with blood on their knuckles
and pain in their hearts
was an architect
tasked with building dreams
and kept busy by the thoughts he brought to life
they fit together like two pieces of a long-lost puzzle
like childhood friends, instead of arranged marriages
and when all the metaphors and similes
had been used up
her hand was still cradled gently