By Maya Walker
like the dripping wax of an almost burned out candle, like a reel of film slowly, slowly, slowly passing through time, back when time was early autumns and weighted blankets and love was nothing in my mind except for you, you, you, like the first syllable of your name i cannot say without crying. they say love should be easy but they mistake love for loving, loving like that one fateful winter night when i could not stop smiling, when the moon shined just a little bit brighter for my keyboard to say yes, i love you. you made me a poet, but i have not written about you so purposefully since my longest poem, the one i showed him and asked if i was beyond help. they say all people love but i will leave you with one final thought: if all people love then love is a learned behavior, one learned through attachment to early autumns and weighted blankets and winter nights that can convince a girl beyond help that she is healing.
About the author:
Maya Walker is an avid reader, tea drinker, and lover of words. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Fulminare Review as well as an editor for Kalopsia Literary and a staff writer for Immortal Journal. You can read her work at Seaglass Literary, Modern Renaissance Magazine, Ice Lolly Review, and others, or find her at the abyss of ink known colloquially as the Instagram page @maya_whispers_words.
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