I have spent many fortnights trying to delete the pain like a really bad poem I never meant to type up, you are the only one that has showed up everyday without my asking. Time after time, I have cried about it. I don’t cry anymore, but you’re right, it still hurts. Love has to hurt us in order for us to recognize all that we’ve done– and maybe it wasn’t about her. The essence of who she was to me, I think that’s the most important part. You see I have a strange philosophy, I don’t think you really fall out of love with anyone. The last woman I have shared this theory to, she laughed at me. She never even let me explain, so I don’t share my intimate and close thoughts with people anymore. Not like that at least. The thing is this. You don’t act a certain way because it used to hurt someone. You are self-destructive, but you recognize it. When you fall in love and it’s reciprocated– it’s like a whole new universe imploded into being. It’s like drinking poison and knowing you’ll survive it. I have tried to write about other things, I’ve come to a simple conclusion. Love is and will always be the only thing worth writing about. Choosing different professions, but staying because of one simple factor: you love your work. Love. It’s the most qualified aspect of humans, we didn’t become the dominating species on this planet because we were stronger, we became so because we felt the pain of losing a loved one. The fact that we can overload our whole being with emotions, that makes us powerful. We’re like supercomputers that truly only understands the need to feel love and to be loved. Our 1s and 0s, our xoxoxo’s. I think about you from time to time, I try not to write about you. I want to ask you about the times when you promise to never leave and how I believed you. There is no greater progress than heartbreak. Give a woman a broken heart and she’ll be more powerful than anything manmade after she has pulled through. Give a man a broken heart and he’ll never be the same after the trigger is pulled. They may search forever, but if happiness calls for it. I’ll do my time, I’ll find peace within my pieces that I’ve given away. There’s so much more to us than how we are seen by the people who couldn’t put up with us anymore. The foundation of love starts with the self. All things shall pass given enough time, the people who needs us, the people who wants us, the people who adds to our core values, and the person we need to survive the suffering– the story doesn’t end because of a bad year, the story doesn’t end because your heart hasn’t fully healed. Our greatest weapon, the brain– it can be quite the bitch. You may be having the best day of your life, but a familiar smell can trigger you. The cologne he always put on right before dinner, although you both never went to anywhere fancy. He wanted to smell nice around you. The perfume she always wore before bed, I just want you to remember how I smell just in case you mess me while I’m at work. Our memories are linked to all of our senses, how else can we remember so much? The subtleties of us– these are the things that I still love about you even if you’re not the person that I call when I wake up. The person that you talk to right before you fall asleep will always change, but the feelings will stay the same. If you’re into video games, love is always the final boss. Instead of beating it, you’re always sitting there on top the roof of the tallest building throwing our paper planes with our favorite poems. Your favorite things inside of one smile, how lips can change for each emotion. You’re not in this part of my life, but you’re still altering my decisions. It’s weird to be attached to people, I try not to. It’s within my nature to cling, so I would rather be alone. It’s within my heart to love, so I don’t go out much. It’s said that we have soulmates scattered all over the planet, I wonder how many times we’ll have to say goodbye until the timing’s right. Your birthday is coming up in two months, I want to call, but I really shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be texting you or writing about you, but there’s a part of me that can’t let go and that’s a thing I’ll have to write out. I’m happy that you’re happy, I truly am. He’ll give you the universe inside of a universe– I could never give that to you. I just wish you supported me more. I put people on high pedestals, you’re right. We’re just human. I love with a permanent third degree burn, I lose my cool when things don’t go as planned. Almost a whole two years and I’m still writing about you. What a shame, what a shame. I’m still a letdown. I’m happy about meeting you though, because without you. I wouldn’t be who I am today. Without my mistakes, I can’t be better. I was never taught how to love, so I love until my heart breaks and then I love some more. Maybe I’ve got a problem, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is I have an outlet. Who could’ve known that writing poetry would be helpful? I didn’t even know how to write a poem prior to saying I love you. You changed my ways for the better. I am flawed, but I could’ve been way worse if it wasn’t for you. I still ponder, but it’s alright. Things don’t last forever, I am less naive. People can choose to leave, I no longer bleed when my thoughts say that I should. These days I keep it short, if you bring up love, I’m out. Scared to fall in love, let’s just be friends. My soul is heavy, I keep my personality light. They say that we are all of the people we’ve ever loved. A most loved piece from everyone– a collection of good habits from my exes, I am the x on the treasure map. I should have treated you better turns into I won’t treat the next one like that. I shouldn’t write anymore love poems, I don’t know what it feels like anymore– yet I still write. They always ask how I’m able to write such words? These days I’m less myself and more of someone else. The more I think I got it figured out, the more I realize I don’t have shit figured out. It’s not poetry, it’s just an honest love letter. It’s not love, it’s just another way to not hate yourself. It’s not pain, it’s just another thing to get over. I didn’t have depression before I met you, but after you it all makes sense. The story doesn’t end with you, it ends with me. The story has more than one chapter, you’re just a page I need to rip out. It’s okay to remember, it’s not okay to long for emotions that are no longer there. Maybe one day I’ll forget about you, maybe one day I’ll be over you. It ends someday, ya know? I’m just waiting for things to pass and for things to last. I’m sorry that I can’t give the world to you. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry that we’re just friends. I’m sorry that it didn’t work. I’m sorry that I said those words to you. I’m sorry that I never wrote anything for you. I’m sorry about not visiting anymore– you’re getting way attached and I can’t break your heart like that. I’m sorry that you’re waiting for me, it’ll all make sense some day. I’m sorry that you cried for nothing. I’m sorry, I’m not that guy. I’m just a simple poet with simple words. The story thus far is not pretty, but it will end beautifully.
when I said hold me I meant take the words from my eyes, drip your loneliness into breaths I can digest from the stars I hear you in. I love the lonely in hopes to someday love myself. I write in the broken to complete the sentences I dreamt up when yesterday bit my tongue. I cry in heaves to remember how to feel when I miss the feeling of belonging in my own arms. when I said I need you I meant I see trees where your feet have ran into dust, a billed sentence asking the ocean to take you whole tonight. Exhaustion is in the way I say hello to a letter folded in half every night, in fingers that have lost track of bedtime stories told to the silence humming a hole through my stomach every time the sun rises before you close your eyes. In the sand that left an imprint of a door I’ve kept open for the wind to close in a single debt I pay to bruise my knees to hear you say my name. Love me or leave me, just listen when I say it was never meant to be this way. Or like that. Or like never. Some words don’t hold weight, it just means that I’ve got to let this go, just like how you’ve got to let me go. Some days, I try– today, I do. Today was not meant for an us. Once again, I fall short. I don’t get to hit the ground and break into a million pieces. I don’t get to lose my breath and have a noose that’s too tight, I get to breathe today. I don’t get to overdose, I can be a little high– these things are alright, it doesn’t break my heart to take another pill, but it fucking rips me open to know that we can’t do this anymore. Was love meant to be this hard? Am I unlovable? Were you? If you were a soulmate, then this isn’t really goodbye. It just sounds like it. If we were ever in love, then this is us finally getting it right. Sometimes when you love people, you hurt them. Sometimes when you love people, you let them go. They say that if someone really wants to be with you, they won’t have an excuse as to why things won’t work. They’ll make it happen. This is my excuse, I’m just not that into you anymore. And yes, I should’ve tried hard– but if that’s the case, how come I feel like a hardened soldier who has been through hell for you? Cities have fallen for less, my heart has been undressed so many times, I forget about what it feels like to finally pick yourself. Against the odds, I picked tragedy. My back against the wall, I pick the salt throne. If this life composes another symphony, you won’t be a part of it. If this heart picks another sound to dance to, you won’t be by the phone. If I decide to pick destruction, at least I’ll break by my own hands. I don’t need your consent to fucking hurt tonight. I don’t need your smile to be understood– some days the ocean asks to drown, today? It’s judgment day. And this is just another meaningless poem as to why things could’ve worked out, but did not. This is what a broken heartbreak speaks when it has had enough. This is my no to your yes. This is my goodbye to your stay. This is my poem for our home, this is forgive me– it’s yours and yours alone.
I know it’s just a piece of bureaucratic paperwork, but my psychiatrist stating that within two years I will “show considerable improvement” genuinely gives me hope. Just gotta transform that hope into eating breakfast!