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languages & writing

March in September

Misheel Batkhuu
Oct. 14, 2021, 7:41 a.m.

They say you only understand the lyrics when you’re sad, but nothing resonates throughgoing
As much as Taylor Swift when she says, ‘this love is golden.’

I used to think love was floating high above the clouds, so light, spiralling out into the sun.
I didn’t feel the burn until the harm was done.

I used to think love was burning ears and a squeezing heart carried off the brim.
I couldn’t think straight, I lost more than him.

I thought it natural to be wistful of every other girl.
Fine to adjust and change all for his view.
But worst of the worst, okay I was not true.

Why did I call those conversations fun? all they really were was mundane.
Why were my texts so feverishly overdone? all I did in person was avoid and
Yet, for you, it’s all too good, all too real and all too fanciful…
Why do I not run from, but to you?

Is it maturity?
Is it experience?
Is it a different person?
Or is it that we’ve found the one?

With you I am fulfilled.
I couldn’t ask for more, couldn’t beg for less, as I hope to never sever.
I feel light, an urge to dance, a surge to run, face to the sun.
I feel steadier, however too, planted, and readier than ever.
Reaching for a starry sky, the soft earth beneath preserves me from the blue.
Free to be free, I let my arms spread open too.
Wide and up like the corners of my lips, but namely open like my heart.
Open to embrace. Open to the sun. Open to the rain. Open to what’s begun: the story of me and you.

You make me laugh, you make me cry, you make me stare, you make me glare.
You inspirit me to work, unshackle me to breathe,
Leave me glad to live, enraptured to regift it like a wreath

To you who makes the awkward okay, the scary exciting, and mere liking solicitude.
You whom I like listening to, you whom I adore talking to, and you I relish tormenting.
You who listens, you who cares, your bona fide words are my spring.

You do more than make me love you for you; you make me love me for me.

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