Not everybody is a story,
Some people are poems,
And they will break your body into syllables, wait
For you to rhyme
For the cups of your elbows to fall on the ground
Like rainwater and they will take bits of that
To put you in meters,
Try to measure love in the strands
Of your hair, the tattooed back of your ankle,
The curves of your body
That mother taught you to paint over – listen,
Not everybody will be a story.
They will come to you in flashes, maybe a line
Or a word in an accent that you don’t recognise
So learn instead to remember how they
Filled your mouth
With the kind of magic, you thought existed
Only in shooting stars, remind yourself
Of the way, they left traces of themselves on your collarbones,
Their breath sucking the life out of you making you feel as though this – this is the only way you ever Wished to be alive anyway – listen. forgive the man
Who tried to fit an entire ocean into his backpack
And only drenched himself in the process:
He didn’t know any better.
Forgive him for the way he believed he was reaching for pearls and seashells when his hands landed in the Darkness of your soul.
Maybe he really didn’t know that the deeper you go
The darker it is.
Maybe what matters is not
If they were a story or a poem
Or even just a haiku across broken syllables.
Maybe what matters is that they were written
Into the existence of a universe
And the universe