The Bond of Peace

All right, imagine this: you've nearly finished a poem, but that ending—it just won't come right, no matter what you try. And the moment you're about to send me that broken, half-built thing, it hits you: wait, I don't even talk to him anymore!

So what then? Do you leave the poem half-done? Or do you spend hours, pulling your hair out in despair, only to abandon the whole thing in the end?

Do you know how things that make you tear your hair out to create—sometimes I can make them in a minute? And things that take me hours and hours? You could probably make those in a minute without breaking a sweat.

Half of me stays with you. Half of you stays with me. No one else will ever know this, no one else will understand it. Isn't that strange?

Do you realize how many stories, how many words, how many poems our silence will kill before they're even born?

How many songs will shatter before they're finished. How many poems will crumble just as they're taking shape. How many extraordinary stories will stop growing just when they should have flourished... Do you ever really grasp what that means?

I grieve for them—these unborn things. I do, truly. When we became two instead of one, so many journeys will stop halfway. So many things will never fit back together. So many creations will remain incomplete in the emptiness where two souls should have touched. Neither you nor I is whole alone.

Do you know why I love you? There's only one reason: you've bound me in love as much as you've bound me in peace—perhaps more. Once I found this peace, I understood: to rest in peace amid an ocean of sorrow brings more joy than to dwell in unrest upon an ocean of happiness.