Do you know how I've been doing these days? 
I've grown scared of the things I love. 
 
I'm afraid of my own guitar. 
It hurts to play a song 
When each melody echoes your name 
And each chord played, 
Accompanied with tears and longing. 
 
I'm too anxious for paper and poetry. 
How could I ever write again 
When my pen carries the weight 
Of your hands once rested upon my palms? 
Every stroke of ink on velvet paper 
Mimics the way you held my face. 
 
I started avoiding certain streets. 
Every corner of this city screams your name, 
Yet T. Bugallon happens to wail a little louder.  
How could I forget you 
When even the streets back home lead to you? 
 
... 
 
My passion and pursuit does not scare me. 
You do. 
And you terrify me more than anything else. 
 
You—in every way—petrify me. 
In how you swallow my day and nights, 
In how your voice rings in every note I play, 
In how your name engraves itself into every prose I write, 
In how you leave footprints I trace on streets I walk. 
 
The way you exist is relentless, 
Mercilessly engulfing my perception of art. 
It felt like you possessed the type of magic 
That could summon rain. 
Yet not the rain that falls onto skin— 
You feel like storms that seep through flesh and bones. 
 
And yet, it made me love you just as ruthlessly. 
It made me want to strum every string, 
Write every poem, 
Walk down every road, 
And indulge in your proximity, 
All in sync with every beat of my heart. 
 
I never wanted anything more than 
To spend every lifetime I'm destined to live 
Falling in the depths of you— 
Recklessly, 
Deliberately, 
Perpetually.