And why does it feel
like my tongue
has always known his name,
like my heart is beating
the same rhythm as his
and our hands
would fit together like a puzzle
when all it took
for me to fall
was a laugh like a God
that changed it all?
—  // where are you?
It’s 2am and all I crave is your hands on my skin and your lips on mine.
—  t.i // Repost from something I wrote a while ago #4.
I’ve always been the sunrise,
but you were nothing but the sunset
and somewhere in the hallow dark we met
—  t.j. // mini poem #5
i keep writing poetry you’ll never read, and it’s a shame you can’t see you are made of every line my mind assembled
every letter wounded into ribbons to hopefully take your breath, every metaphor i left on your doorstep with a postcard
you don’t see it looking back at you in the mirror; maybe it’s blinding you the way you do with me
gentle smiles under rainbow eyes, who wouldn’t be blindly raptured
my eyes keep searching for your figure I shouldn’t put into words, but everything about you is unreal i have to remind myself you aren’t
but you don’t know, or understand, it’s my only way of saying you’re my poetry
—  s.c
I never thought that I would end up in this position, but here I am. Our relationship is going downhill fast, and you’re still in love with me. You’re still in love with me. You’re still in love with me. And I’m falling out of love with you. My heart doesn’t flutter because of you like it used to, but I can see it in your eyes, I can see just how much brighter a look from me makes you. What am I supposed to do? I always thought I’d be there to pick up your pieces whenever you needed it. I never thought I’d be the one that might break you.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Request: Being in a relationship that’s starting to crash and burn while knowing the other person loves you, but just not loving them back.
i lost you between the pages
of goodbye poems
i had already written
i’m sorry–
i tend to let go of people
before they have the chance
to let go of me.
—  poeticallyordinary
What are you scared of?” He said it with a mischievous grin, with dark eyes twinkling in the dim light, with a playful shove against her shoulder. She twisted out of his grip. Didn’t he know that the five words sent her heart flying, her pulse skittering, her hands shaking? “Of letting you get too close” she wanted to say, “of you seeing the parts of me I desperately want to hide”, “of you finally realising I’m not what you wanted”, “of getting attached and losing everything.”
Her mouth clamped shut and she forced the words down, nearly choking on them, splitting her skin open on their sharp edges.
“Of being forgotten,” she finally whispered and his face darkened, “I don’t want to be one of the girls you kiss and forget about.”
She watched him struggle for excuses, desperately trying to reach for something that would soothe her churning thoughts, the storm of doubts she was caught up in.
“You’re not like the others.” Only a snort made it past her lips at his answer. She knew she wasn’t like the others, there was no need for him to tell her. She was scared, positively terrified, and now that he knew how much of a mess she was, it was so easy to see him looking for a way out.
“You want to know if I’m scared,” she said, not bothering to wait for a reply this time, “and I am. Yes, I am. So scared of being used and hurt only to be left behind. So scared of getting my hopes up only to have them crushed. But most of all I’m scared of being forgotten.” He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Closed it. When it became clear that he was frantically searching for something, anything, to say, she spoke again, quieter, calmer.
“But I wanted to give it a shot this time. I wanted to prove that even a person like you could love me. But now I know you’ll run as soon as you see me break. And yes, I’m scared. Of never finding someone who can show me that I don’t have to be.
—  write about “fear” // Fear of being forgotten, ignored, or replaced
Wrap your arms around me, I’ll wrap my arms around you, and for just a little while, we can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
For a little while, we can disappear.
Now that’s what I call magic.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (247/366)

When you love someone, everything about them starts to become infinitely better. You look at them like it’s the first time all the time, and I know they say that butterflies stand for nervousness but it’s not the anxiousness in your stomach but more of a warmth in your soul whenever they are on your mind or in front of you.  Even if you hated music, you’d still love the melody in their laugh and the song in their voice. You can walk downstairs to buy a gallon of milk and within the twenty feet you will find something that’ll remind you of them. It’s as easy as seeing their favourite color or a stranger order coffee the same way they will. And as you start every day, you wish the sun would never set so you’d never have to miss a conversation you could have if sleep wasn’t necessary.

When someone loves you, they will find their way to you and you won’t have to ask them to come meet you in the middle of the city just for five minutes. They will want to. They will want to listen to you rant about your current mood and listen to you when you are stressed about everything, even when it is absolutely nothing. They will touch you with tenderness, kiss you with the softness they inhabit, and when you are close enough to feel their heartbeat, you know it’s for you. You’ll be able to see the electricity in their eyes and the fire in their soul whenever you are together, enough to light up the world and even the sea can’t burn you out. It’s always a special moment with them, even if it’s the simplest things such as taking a walk or drinking tea on a chilly day, and even that’ll be more than ordinary. And as this person continues to stay in your life, you will realize how deserving people are of love, especially yourself.

i let him inside last night, it was cold,
the blood on the living room carpet is mine
not his, his chipped china face
shouldn’t be there, his sing-song voice
shouldn’t echo where it doesn’t belong.
he shouldn’t belong here.
i let him closer to my heart than any other
childhood memory martyr,
any other missing fragment, fractured
glass shard fingernails digging into flesh,
this mighty muscle has become so raw
i doubt healing will be an option.
i miss him.  i miss feeling fields of strawberry lips
swaying, lulling me to sleep in his arms,
strong trees that planted roots among my own.
“its only dirt” he’d said,
but this dirt was my only home.
i can’t plant flowers here anymore.
his roots sucked the soil dry, void of happiness,
i can’t grow gardens anymore. spots of orange light
still shine through drawn curtains,
but the setting sun is not enough. this isn’t enough.
it was never enough.
i was never enough.
—  poeticallyordinary; Love, Lover, Loved, Lost.
I don’t chase people anymore,” she said, turning up the collar of her jacket against the freezing cold, “either they want to stay or they don’t.” He handed her a cup of coffee, gently brushing her fingers, so lightly it might as well have been an accident.
“Sometimes you have to chase people for a while, just to make sure they know how you feel about them,” he replied. She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of hot coffee and burning her tongue. “That’s just stupid.”
A knowing smile formed on his lips as he watched her. “See, there are a lot of people like you,” his smile widened while her face transformed into a scowl, “people who are always on the run and unaware of what others might feel for them. Unaware that they make someone else’s heart race, that they make their days brighter and their worries seem pointless. It’s people like you that I need to chase because you’re always too far gone before I can hold on to you, and quite frankly, I’m tired of chasing, too.
—  “So do you want to stay?”
He calls you late at night, and you can’t help holding your breath, waiting for a drunk confession of love, because this must be the time that daydreams become reality.
His voice is barely an exhale, but you hear every syllable because that’s how you always listen to him: so very closely. “Can you come pick me up?” It’s slurred, though his voice is just a whisper.
He’s drunk, but he isn’t in love.
So you slip out of your house, and you start the car, easily agreeing because it’s him. It’s him and it’s him and it’s him, and that is any and every excuse you’ll ever need. Street lights pass in a blur as you get closer and closer to him, and you don’t know why it’s always like this—why does every road and every map lead to this boy?
You like to think that it’s fate.
Your road ends where it always begins, and you stop in front of a bright house in the dark night, and various bottles and different people are scattered across the lawn, and there he is, walking toward you, and he’s drunk and he’s exhausted and he looks like hell, but it’s him—it’s him and it’s him and it’s him. He gets into the car, and he slumps in the passenger seat, and you want to say something—you want him to say something—but silence swallows you whole as you start the car and pull away from the curb.
And you drive, and you drive, and you try to focus on the yellow lines in the center of the road rather than his ragged breathing or your erratic heartbeat, but the lines are blurred and your heart won’t still.
Finally, he mumbles something, and you wish that you didn’t hang on to every word he says. You wish that this wasn’t fate’s plan because this is not the ending you’d always dreamed of. You wish that you weren’t listening close enough to hear him say her name, to hear him mumble, “She’s beautiful, and I don’t fucking deserve her, but god, I wish I did.”
Because he’s drunk, and he’s in love. He’s just not in love with you.
—  H.L. // excerpt from a book I’ll never write #42