I wish you would have never called me. I wish you would call again.
There’s something about watching someone grow, that makes you always want to be near them.
It makes it that much harder watching them leave.
We always want to find that sliver of hope in ourselves the way we see it in other people.
This isn’t healing. This is just the truth.
I’ve been off. I’ve been getting off. You’re sleeping soundly in a different bed than mine.
I miss your laugh. I miss the curve of your appetite, your 4 am cigarette breaks, the shyness in which your hands fold. The axis in our stomachs that kept us together, even when there was nothing left. I miss when we were silently electrifying, just a look from across the room, had us on our knees. I miss being porcelain under you, one wrong move, and I broke in half. I loved our crooked uncertainty.
We think we find hope in the most obscure of places. We think we find it if the terms and conditions says so, we’ll give up the most important parts of ourselves, if it means we can no longer live with the glass half full.
We knew we wouldn’t get out of this alive, but I did not know you would beat me to the finish line.
I’m still running. I’m still running.
There’s something about watching someone grow, that keeps you from letting go.
A year ago, you compared me to a setting sun, my whole body was a fallen horizon in your eyes. You did not want to stick around to watch me rise again.
I spent too much time thanking you, when I was doing all the fixing. I spent too much time comparing your hands to demolition; if we’re being honest you were the bulldozer and I was the aftermath.
If love had told me that it would have made me sick, I would have told it to fuck off a long time ago.
I don’t want you back, I don't want you back, but I’ll do anything I hate enough.