Dear friend,
Sometimes poets hold their hands to each sides when they are talking about hearts. I find wonder in you. You are not a number. You are not somebody's measure of probability, you are not a bar chart, you are not somebody's statistics. You are flesh and skin and bones and heart and a mess of ribcage and fragility and strength and emotion. You are alive the night when the weight of the world collapses and you roll over and fall into the third dimension of existence, the space in between life and death where dreams are constellations and where we learn to fall asleep. You are not your subject assessment tests, you are made out of the flips in your stomach and the knowledge of how to hold a pen in your hand.
You are the universe's first and last. Your name and your story and your heart and your love and your joy and your pain and your nostalgia is yours and yours alone. You are your broken voice and nobody else is going to sound the same way when they sing your favourite song off tune.
I think it's beautiful how the universe thought us worthy of being created. You are one of the only gazillion things to have ever existed. And I hope when you are writing your best poem or looking at the mirror or seeing a photograph in a moment that you're not going to take, I hope you know that if you are capable of existence, you are capable of anything at all. The possibilities are infinite and so are you.
And in between so many eras, and in between all of every documented human encounter and in between the pages of our history books and in between the creation of a star five hundred years ago and in between the light on the night sky and in between seventeen hour flights from this country to that and in between oblivion and the end of world, and in between being nothing and being this - I am honoured to have known and loved you at all.
Lots of love,
Me.
