the writer. messy notebooks, messy desks. messy head. scribbling all over their arms. night owl. never being able to finish a project. losing too many ideas due to forgetfulness. passionate about everything. know-it-all. not knowing their own limits. trying to make flowers bloom, even during heavy storms.
the poet. quiet. visual mind. head filled with ideas, struggling to find the right words. not being productive for three months and then writing six poems in an hour. reading the entire dictionary several times. noticing little details that no one else does. laughing quietly. wishing to be enough, someday.
the painter. failing at consistency. having paint all over their face, clothes, and desks. spending more money on art supplies than on anything else. notebooks filled with doodles, tears, and flowers. radiating sunshine. heavy mood swings. supporting, and being supported.
the performer. loud. not hesitating to speak up, for themselves, for others. trying to see the good in everything. rain, and the smell before rain. drinking more coffee than their body can handle. reading every book at once. laughing and crying at the same time. being honest. the helping hand everyone needs.
You date a boy and afterwards, I watch you turn him into a city. You say, this is the road where his car went over the guardrail and he walked away without a scratch and took three whole days to call you. You say, this is the road where you threw my flowers out to make room for him in the passenger seat. You say, this is the road between his house and our apartment. This is the restaurant you used to frequent with him, which is also where you took me for our first dinner date. This is the used condom we found stuck between the wall and my side of the bed. These are the sheets you still hadn’t changed by the time I moved in. This is someone else’s bed and I am laying awake at night in it, folding and unfolding city maps, wondering if there’s a casual way to say, “Hey, is your ex-boyfriend Rome? because everything leads back to him.”
So I asked him about love and what it meant to him. My mind was split into wanting to listen and fighting to silence the memories that raged in my own head, each one an ear-splitting scream. He said love was about trust, it was about being loyal, but all I could see was your hand in mine and sand between our toes and secret smiles shot that always hit home. He told me he wasn’t sure he’d ever been in love, not truly, not the head over heels kind of way that leaves you struggling for breath and your heart pounding a rhythm you’ve never heard before.
I nodded in understanding even though I couldn’t relate, even though I could remember spilling my doubts and my fears like oceans and feeling the soothing sensation of the wind on my wet skin, knowing I was being listened to. Knowing I was home, here, with you, with salt clinging to my lashes. Knowing I could reach out and brush my thumb over the curve of your lips and having you lean into my touch. He said love was something that had to be felt, not seen, and I thought of the way your eyes lit up when I laughed or the quiet way you watched me when you spoke, waiting for my reaction. When he asked me about love, I told him I was sorry.
Sorry because the part of me that wanted to finally stop living in the past ached, but the other part that clung to memories like they were its anchor to this world won. It won because when I had asked you about love all these years ago, you’d only stared at me, that weird expression on your face and said, “why waste time explaining when I can show you?”
i was always panic-stricken when i was with you: it was a hands-shake, mouth-goes-dry, stomach-roils kind of love. then i didn’t know that love should be soft and unforced and bright like flowers – i thought it was all about how much you bled. and obviously i still do, because i am still in love with you.
you gave me panic attacks and i called it love // abby // prompt for @noerasaetre
It’s always been hard to see the spaces between us– spaces that has never filled with love but the emptiness of distance that will never pull us closer. It’s never easy to love you from afar. I always wonder myself if will there be a time that we can call ourself “us”? Or we’re forever be just “you and me”? I never had you and I know I will never have you, to the point that my feelings for you will fade unnoticed and unseen but I know you love me, that we love each other but in our own ways; mine is loving you selflessly and yours is loving me with boundaries and limitations because you never see me as a lover– because your heart beats for someone else– because just simply because you don’t love me the way that I want you to love me. You are the angel, I’m the demon; and reality is blocking our way to each other– reality that angels and devils are not supposed to be together. Just like how the sun chases the moon because they never had a chance to be together because they were not meant to each other. And if ever one day you will think of me; I don’t want you to remember me as a girl who fell in love with you and walked away because you didn’t love her back. I want you to remember me when everyone’s gone and you’d tell to yourself, if I was still there I’m that person who you can talk to anytime.