I want to write. I love writing, so I want to write. But I want to write about you. And I don’t know how.
I used to think that anything could be put into words — lives, minds, entire worlds. Now, I’m not so sure. Whenever I begin describing you, whenever I try to write about your laugh or your smile or your eyes, I write… nothing. Because there are no words to describe how your hand in mine makes me feel. It’s isn’t like in the movies, you see. There are no sparks, there is no fire. Because home doesn’t burn. And you are home.
The closest words I can find for you are ‘l’appel du vide’. The call of the void. And you are my void. I am drawn to you, and I can never escape. I can never even wish to, because of the nagging, hopeful voice, asking if I might be your void, too.
Everything reminds me of you. The trees, the smog, the spattering drops of rain, they all seem to whisper your name, to echo the cadence of your laugh. I talk about your laugh a lot. Maybe it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Maybe I love it. Maybe I love you. And maybe I don’t know what to do with that knowledge, because it’s frightening, it’s terrifying, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because you are my void, and I’m a single star, and I can’t help but lose myself in you.
