1. he’s going to hold you and tell you that you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever met. you might or might not believe him.
2. he’s going to call you late at night and you’re going to laugh and say “why are you calling me so late?” and he’ll respond with “because i just wanted to hear your voice one last time before i fell asleep.” and you might or might not just end up aching a little inside.
3. he’s going to listen to you cry and complain about how your best friends broke your heart and once you’re done, he’s going to still be there and tell you that you’re so strong for talking about it.
4. he’s going to whisper things into your ear like, “you’re so beautiful, god you’re so beautiful.” over and over again when he thinks you’re asleep and maybe you are and you’ll feel those words in your dream but if you’re awake, i swear you’ll smile and respond with “i think you’re beautiful too,” even if he doesn’t end up hearing it.
5. he’s going to tell you he loves you and that he loves you, he loves you, he loves you especially when you’re laughing and can’t seem to stop and he’s going to tell you that even when you’re clinging at your skin, wishing you were anywhere but here.
and you’re going to believe him.
you know why? because you love him too.
We loved like Hera and Zeus.
Tricking each other into thinking
the other would better us, cure us
and that ours was a love
which would last so long
that we could take each other,
our bodies and souls for granted.
An endless chasm had opened
between us before we realised
we had convinced each other
our blood ran immortal ichor
Yet there wasn’t
a drop of it between us
This is what a borrowed forever
looks like; the person you love most
falling into a chasm you both created
and you are too far to save them.
In the end
there were no Gods
to save us.
We had killed them all.
I know You’re good.
I know You’re strong.
I know You’re holy.
I know You’re Love itself.
Speak my heart back to life.
I am Yours.
You called me upon the waters.
You rescued me from the flames.
I am Yours.
i promised i’d stop writing about you,
vowed i’d stop thinking about you.
but it’s 3 am and i fucking miss you.
i miss you when i’m in the shower, in my bed,
on my sofa. when i’m walking along the canal, counting cobblestones and reasons not to call you. do you remember how we used to walk along there?
i miss you when i pause at the end of my driveway, you first kissed me there,
breathless in my blue skirt.
i miss you in my arms.
oh, what a traitor memory is. what a saviour. i can’t recall how you tasted, how you smelled. just wisps of remembrance. memories of memories. but i remember
what you felt like.
it’s been over six months.
has there been a day i haven’t thought about you?
i wonder how long i haunted you for.
(oh not long, not long)
i fantasise about reuniting. but if you
passed me in the street you might smile
if i’m lucky
but you would not stop.
ask me how i am, ask what i’m doing, tell me good morning, tell me i’m beautiful, tell me about fantastical worlds, tell me about faraway places, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, i know this sounds like a plea, not a poem, but, god, haven’t you missed me?