You are the non-fiction story that I would love to write. That I would spend a lot of sleepless nights to spill off ink on paper drafts until I finally preserved our conversations. Conversations of spoken words through whispers and late-night phone calls, of silent smiles and shy gestures, of holding one’s hands and feeling enough. You are divided into chapters of a novel that I would write each of them so I’d understand you wholly, I would write each of them to make myself whole. You are the words I taste and recite before I go to sleep, the phrases I devour on to feed my hungry mind and yearning heart. You are what I write, and by writing, I’m alive.
You are the non-fiction story that I would love to read. I read you and I’d be with you as you strive to reach the climax of the plot and as we fall down with the slope of the story. I am with you when we reach the fin. And even after the epilogue. Across the acknowledgments, beyond other’s reviews and opinions. Far from the book’s paperback. Oh we’re beyond bookstore stands and libraries.
All books and all stories end. And so as ours, but I think that is why there are sequels. I would expand the three word I love you’s into trilogies. My words are overflowing that they all can’t be contained in one book – they’re spilling over with playful idioms and teasing metaphors. Of sincere one-word phrases like Always and Okay that can take a reader’s breath away.
Truly, everything still ends even after sequels of books. Ours might end like Rowling’s All is well and Dante’s Wait and hope. I understand if it would be as sad as Segal’s I would also be alive and Green’s I do. Or hanging as Frank’s I still believe people are really good at heart and Salinger’s If you do, you start missing everybody.
But I assure you, you’d be the non-fiction story that I’d write and read again and again. And you know what? You made me stop writing about fiction stories and empty poems. Why would I if I can write about you?
I think I’m starting to love non-fiction more. You’re non-fiction.