Dear You

Dear you, there is no one like you. There is absolutely
not a single soul that is like you. You may wonder why
I say this with much conviction. You may wonder how,
in the midst of the truth of our coexistence with billions
of other strangers, I still hold on to the truth of the
oneness of a you. Dear you, there is no other that holds
so much beauty in this world than you. Your proximity
engulfs me, as if I were a lonely boat afloat the angry
sea during a sudden thunderstorm.
Your eyes are shaped like clam shells; the pupils of your
eyes: my pair of million-dollar-worth pearls. Your anatomy
is a treasure chest and each part, a jewel as priceless as
rare diamonds still unearthed, untouched. You are a portrait
of luxury — my ever gleaming epitome of perfection.
Dear you, there is a colony of a you inside my head, in the
tiny centerpiece of my totality — beating, beating, beating,
trying to create music out of the silent percussion of its rhythmic
heartbeats. Your breathing is a semblance of wordless poetry —
invisible sentiments that hang suspended in mid-air.
I can hear it softly, just as I hear the call of the sea, the song
of the trees, the smooches of the grass with the walked-on
lands. I can see through the language of your stillness,
the mechanics of your every move: it is all so beautiful.
You are a picturesque reminiscence of a universe I have never
seen wholly. You are itself my universe — your milky way skin,
your Saturn wrists, your Jupiter ears, your moonlit fingernails,
your sunny eyes, your black hole pupils, your earthen elbows,
your Mercury lips, your Venus face, your Pluto toes.
Dear you, there is no one like you. There is absolutely
not a single soul that is like you. Are you still wondering why?
Are you still wondering how?