I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence.
When love finds you, it doesn’t come with crashing waves or thunderbolts. It appears as a song on the radio or a particular blue in the sky. It dawns on you slowly, like a warm winter sunrise—where the promise of summer shines out from within.
I guess the hardest part in letting him go was realizing that I was the rough draft, and she was the final copy. He marked me up, leaving scratches and foot notes along my skin, so that when the time came, she could be clear of his mistakes. But he should never forget that he still has traces of my ink on side of his hand. The hand I used to hold.
I spent six months writing about a boy who was never going to love me back, but are you surprised? Six whole months writing love poems about the boy with an unruly shade of blue in his eyes. Six whole months of chicken-scratch dedicated to his decorated lies.
I never liked the ‘maybes,’ and I have always feared the ‘perhaps.’ They leave an open door of hope, one for which it is impossible to gain closure. If you don’t love me say no. Slam the door, or I’ll peer through the crack forever.