I fall in love with all things broken: window cracks, shards of glass, scraped knees, and broken hearts wrapped up in bandages.
You were deeply scarred when I met you.
I toppled over.
You have this habit of entering a new place for the first time and exclaiming that you feel like you’ve been there before. Wherever we went to, you’d tell me that the view, the noise, the smell—everything seemed familiar to you.
“Sometimes I look at people and feel the same way,” I’d reply.
Scars validate one’s existence.
I often thought yours make you beautiful.
I often wished I wore scars I could take pride in, too.
“Maybe people only know me on the surface because I’m afraid they’ll find nothing worthwhile beneath it if they got too close,” I told you once over cold beer. “I do not have the heart to see people walk out of my life if that were the case.”
I recall you replying as such: “You’re like the night sky. Hidden behind those clouds are the brightest stars light years away and only the daring ones get to see those bloody stars. You have to be bold enough to see them yourself, and you have to be brave to let others draw out your constellations.”
For Christmas, you gave me a silver pen with my name engraved on it and asked me to write what I want to be.
I wrote “Yours” on your palm.
That night, I kissed you as if the balance of the universe depended on it.
There was a map pinned on my wall the morning that followed your departure; it was your farewell letter. I tried guessing where you might have gone to but the world’s too vast for my puny soul.
…I have never felt more inadequate.
I tried writing you in fancy metaphors but
language could not capture the arch of your back,
or the ringing of your laughter,
or the burn of your stare,
or the taste of your tongue.
Words could not pave you a way back to me.
You scarred me well, my dove.
Now, I am beautiful, too.