Why Poets Write Poetry

I think I miss being in love. Not just with one person but with all. The feeling of loving someone and being loved in return, regardless of if it was the same. “How can a person be so beautiful”, you said to me. “It was the type of beauty that makes hearts beat and poets write poetry.” I never accepted compliments but this one was different. Out of the entirety of my existence, this one resonated, and I listened. Because for the first time words meant something to me. It wasn’t just a collection of letters gathered to encourage the expression of what one thinks. It was as though I could see in between. The lines, the words unseen, hidden beneath letters, a shadowy presence. A dream. But the way you talked of me. To me. It’s hard to believe but I think you’re the reason why I write poetry. Partially at least. For the first time, what I had been searching for felt as though it were right in front of me. Something not even I knew was missing. Intangibly. But now that I’ve had it, and it’s gone, it’s hard to live my life without it. This was the piece I was searching for all along.