Dear Quill,
There are the dreamers.
The hopeless romantics.
Those are the one's
who fall so deeply.
Love so loudly.
Because they don't know any different than the
brevity of their own hearts.
They see who they want and know, just know,
that this is their reason on Earth.
This person is the one
they are to love forevermore.
And so they chase and chase and chase until their heart's have had their fill.
This is what it means to be a dreamer.
There are the realists.
The ones who see a beautiful face
and compartmentalize it with all the other beautiful faces.
Not because they're
shallow or coldhearted.
No.
It's because realists see love
for what it truly is.
Suffering.
For there is no love without suffering.
There is no suffering without love.
And the realists, they know that there's only one person for them
worthy of being in agony for.
So they wait and they wait and they wait until their heart's stutter for the first time in their life.
This is what it means to be a realist.
It's poetry,
you paused.
Found me breathless in the crowd.
That the dreamers find the realists
and the realists love the dreamers.
I remember the snaps
that filled the air.
The hollers and the quiet snaps.
Raised coffee mugs
and steaming TAZO tea.
I remember smiling and thinking
about how I'd never been
in a place like this before.
It's poetry,
you repeated.
Eyes forever locked on me.
You spoke to the whole crowd,
but your eyes never wandered.
Stella quite enjoyed the attention.
Stella had never felt
such a feeling before.
You, Quill, were always good with words like that.
✒
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