sometimes my head asks questions i cannot answer
how
can i write about love like this? when i can't be sure i've ever truly felt it? how do my fingers feel so at home when they're writing? when i haven't yet had the chance to get to know the words that fall onto my pages so perfectly,
like cherry blossoms onto concrete after a gust of wind blows through my city
my heart smiles, and humbly assures me that art and light and
love
are eternal, that
they can visit you at
any moment
it replies
"the same way the sky knows when a storm is coming
or how plants turn towards the sun without needing to see it through the clouds
the same way
every song your grandmother used to sing bring scents of
warm honey,
cinnamon and lemongrass tea which change the way your eyes
see the moon
and nightingales flutter in your stomach
though she was long gone before you were old enough to learn what the words mean
and the same way we can hold on just a little longer when we are given
hope"
