Card Unsent
There's a poet, Sarah Kay, that I adore. A spoken word poet i should add. I began following her about 4 years back
She can tug at a heart string as easily as a mild wind can down a leaf from a tree. Effortlessly and without
thought.
She penned a poem, "Postcards" that when I read it I had little effect on me. It was not until I saw her perform it that I saw "Postcards" in a whole new life and it inspired me to write of them.
"Cards Unsent"
I wonder how many postcards I would have written so far in my life if only I had an address to mail them to?
How many "I love you's" would I have said?
How many "I miss you's" would have seen ink?
I wonder what the number of "Wish you were here with me's"? would have seen stubborn tears give up and stream down my cheek as the thoughts met the postcard?
I'd print small. There's only so many words, so many letters we can fit into a thought--and yet-there are no words for some feelings and emotions. At least not that i have found.
There is no word for the hole that lodges in the pit of our hearts for another. One we know we can never be with for whatever reason.
Caste, Class Income, Language, Distance....the heart never sees these nor does it understand them. The heart doesn't see
--borders
--markers
--International boundaries are no more than clouds sent to obscure a view.
It knows no limitations. It can understand Arabic and French as easily as it understands English.
And yet, we know we will love the one we wrote to the end of our days.
There will always be a place for them--
--in my bed
--on my front porch swing
--at the kitchen table
--on the love seat we share popcorn and watch 'Casablanca" for the 10th time.
There will always be a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry one and the support when they need it.
"Unrequited" does not cover this feeling and yet---it exists.
It's not a consuming thought but rather more like a train passing a now obscure train station that just keeps going with no care for what once was.
It's the kind of thought I've had to teach myself not to keep me up at night but rather I wrap myself in it....I hold it close,
I let it warm me as only it can....
....these words unspoken.
These postcards that exist only in my mind.
Addressed to no one.
Addressed to the ones I love.
(c)2020 Elandra77. Written and posted by author for private use. Copyright pending. All rights reserved.
She can tug at a heart string as easily as a mild wind can down a leaf from a tree. Effortlessly and without
thought.
She penned a poem, "Postcards" that when I read it I had little effect on me. It was not until I saw her perform it that I saw "Postcards" in a whole new life and it inspired me to write of them.
"Cards Unsent"
I wonder how many postcards I would have written so far in my life if only I had an address to mail them to?
How many "I love you's" would I have said?
How many "I miss you's" would have seen ink?
I wonder what the number of "Wish you were here with me's"? would have seen stubborn tears give up and stream down my cheek as the thoughts met the postcard?
I'd print small. There's only so many words, so many letters we can fit into a thought--and yet-there are no words for some feelings and emotions. At least not that i have found.
There is no word for the hole that lodges in the pit of our hearts for another. One we know we can never be with for whatever reason.
Caste, Class Income, Language, Distance....the heart never sees these nor does it understand them. The heart doesn't see
--borders
--markers
--International boundaries are no more than clouds sent to obscure a view.
It knows no limitations. It can understand Arabic and French as easily as it understands English.
And yet, we know we will love the one we wrote to the end of our days.
There will always be a place for them--
--in my bed
--on my front porch swing
--at the kitchen table
--on the love seat we share popcorn and watch 'Casablanca" for the 10th time.
There will always be a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry one and the support when they need it.
"Unrequited" does not cover this feeling and yet---it exists.
It's not a consuming thought but rather more like a train passing a now obscure train station that just keeps going with no care for what once was.
It's the kind of thought I've had to teach myself not to keep me up at night but rather I wrap myself in it....I hold it close,
I let it warm me as only it can....
....these words unspoken.
These postcards that exist only in my mind.
Addressed to no one.
Addressed to the ones I love.
(c)2020 Elandra77. Written and posted by author for private use. Copyright pending. All rights reserved.
