I've never been any good at acting, because I've never wanted to be anyone but myself.
I've just pretended to.

Or is that what everyone is doing?

I remember when words and ideas would accidentally come from my fingertips exactly the way I wanted to say them
To you.
And how I could make you feel precisely the way
I felt
that I wanted you to feel.

A certain something is lost when you are in love.
Or
when the person you love
is also in love
with
you.
It is both beautiful, and devastating. 

Because no one wants to read about it.
Which is convenient,
Because no one knows how to write about it.

And, I apologize, lovely.
Because I've written novels for those that would not love me.
And I cannot form sentences for you. 

My memory does my heart no justice,
As my heart is unfair to you.

I could write all about each small thing you do, and don't notice. Because I know the hidden parts of your face, and I've memorized the way you breathe. I can tell you that the rhythm of your lungs doesn't fit well in mine. I've tried.
But, neither has anyone else's.
Except once.
I could try to explain the color of your eyes. Sometimes they're blue, but more often they're green. Each shade present with a memory of the other. They are always home to a bit of hazel. Small flecks, littered across the chameleon canvas.
I could explain your face for every emotion.
And I could paint you a verbal picture of how it changes every time you look at me.

I could fill pages upon pages with every freckle, every line, every scar.
And yet.
It would not be poetry.

Don't worry.
It's not you. It's me.

I'm not sure what it is.
I'm not sure where exactly I am fractured.
For lack of a better description,
let's call it my heart.

I will try.
I will try to love you with each
b  r
oke
   n
piece.

I've made it out of the lion's den.
The ironic place that I never wanted to leave.
And, conversely, never thought I could miss.