I have spent too long writing poetry for any of these words to make sense; they are simply empty strokes of black across paper, and I am left reeling from the smorgasbord of thought that still remains trapped in my mind. I have taken each pen I own across the horizontal streets set deep into vellum; have squeezed every last drop of meaning from the most insignificant of thoughts – and yet here, there is nothing. Nothing except you.
I wish each letter I forge could turn into a part of you; I know then I would not have stopped this writing and kept notebooks, and my hands, under lock and key for millennia. I would not have waited until my hair turned as grey as the sun on that fateful morning; I would not be sitting here now, in front of this sheet, not knowing what I can possibly express about you. Yet I know there are not enough combinations of alphabet, in my language, or yours, or anybody else’s, to do that.
There is a sullenness, I think, to this passage. I have rewritten each word time and time again; spent eras in consideration when I could have been holding infinite clammy hands of breed, or drinking dregs of ruby-staining liquid with colleagues, or taking steps away from you into someone else’s arms and into that agony of wide world before me. But I did not want one blade of grass of it. I wanted you. I know that even if I traversed each country, and wilderness, and sea; even if I let these chains of feet loose across latitude after latitude; even if my eyes burned from the chill of distance, I would still have the energy to fly to you.
I can taste a suffocation of cinnamon in my mouth and it makes me weep.
By Guest Author Juliette Jacenty