Reasons
Because you loved me as I was.
Because you looked into my unfinishedness
and told me I was perfect.
Because we could lie in your bed all day
watching the sun move across the window.
Because content.
Because there was no reason to move.
Because I am a comfort junkie
and you were an endless IV.
Because you told me, over and over,
I didn’t have to know.
Because I kept not knowing.
Because my sadness could not
follow me to your house.
Because it started to.
Because my favorite parts of me
are in a room marked Metaphor
and you loved the translations
that I wrote you.
Because I became a translator.
Because my darkness got lonely.
Because you loved me as I was:
unfinished. Because unmotivation.
Because there was no reason to move,
to write, just translate.
Because I started to forget
my own language.
Because content.
Because discontent.
Because there is a book within me
waiting to be written.
Because I am a writer.
Because the loneliness
of language barriers.
Because the sun moving
across the window.
Because I have to know.