All Things Terribly Lovely

By: Hannah Holliday

When you asked me who I thought you were and I didn’t have an answer, I was worried. Why does my brain not instantly generate poetry when I think about how beautiful you are? Now that I have an answer I am terrified. You are not poetry, you are a reality that I never imagined I’d have and now that I do I can only turn the essence of you into words. You are a summer thunderstorm, warm yet harsh and rumbly in all the right places. You aren’t the little things, you’re the big picture. You are hard corners, sharp turns. You are hitting the side of the car and hearing the crack of bones. You are holding a victim of life on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m. You are whiskey bottles on the coffee table in the middle of the afternoon. You are all things terribly lovely. So how is someone like me, the winter drizzle, the little things, the slowing down before stopping, the soft corners, the tears after the cracks, supposed to be made for someone like you? People wonder why I’m terrified; I love you.