this is the last time
i will not write about you
anymore good bye

I want to correct what I did wrong.
Just give me this one chance,
A moment to tell you
What I really wanted to say.
To erase the error
That tore us apart.
Though I'm not completely sure
If this will restore what we were;
But I'm certain of one thing,
You will sleep one night
Knowing that I love you.

I think you refuse me simply because I don’t give you any reasons to.
I told you I didn’t care about your past or about your afflictions
I told you that I would accept your flaws and show you love because of them.
I told you that I would respect you unlike anyone who you’ve known.

And yet now I’m the imperfectd counterpart of whom can’t receive love.

I guess I’m oxymoronic.
Because I’m so eager to accept the flaws of people who won’t accept mine.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

When I can't feel anything, I watch a sad movie or read the ending of sad books and sometimes I wonder why I do things to make me cry instead of laugh until I waste an hour and a half watching a comedy that isn't even funny to remember  that the easiest feeling to achieve is heartache. And maybe that's twisted but I don't even remember what twisted is because twisted is my normal.

Sometimes happiness takes place of the emptiness but once it's gone it's like stepping on something sharp on carpet and trying to find it. And that may sound odd because stepping on something sharp is painful but so is a happy person with an anxious mind knowing that in only a matter of time that sweet, warm feeling won't be there anymore.

If someone were to knock on my body, it'd be hollow and they would probably imagine it as cold and damp and decide that it's not worth their time. And maybe that's why I'm alone, because everyone is a little afraid of an abandoned house.

You don't see the things I see
And don't believe me when I say
That you are absolute perfection 
In every single way

Your nervous habits I really love
They're just so cute to me
Such as playing with your hands
And pulling up your sleeves 

The way your lips move when you talk 
And your dimples when you blush
How every time I laughed at you
I got a smile and a "hush"

The way your voice sounds when you're tired
And all those things you say
If I had the opportunity
I'd listen to you ramble all day

I saved the very best for last
My favorite thing about you
When you smile that smile of yours
I just can't help but smile too

These are just a few things though
The perfection runs so deep
I love this boy with all my heart
And he's forever mine to keep

When I allow myself to think of
the first mornings we spent together,
I think about how you kissed my shoulder
with sleep still in your eyes;

I remember watching the the city blocks
whimsically turn to fields
and back to blocks again
from the train window,
on my way home.
The train rides were never
a clear picture
as much as they were a feeling,
as thoughts of you consumed me.

I thought about your small,
hot apartment,
the grand weight of our wallets,
empty.
The exaggerated love/lust
as our bellies swished,
full with cheap *****.

Contrary to how it sounds,
this is not a love letter
as much as it is a lament for a person
that once meant everything,
and now is another stranger
on crowded city sidewalk.

I no longer yearn to find you
in some corner of the world,
with arms that have again learned  
how to hold me,
no, this is not a love letter.

I just want to think of you sometimes
and hold on to the parts of you
that already felt like they were mine.

Once again,
I try to remember your scent;
there is no use,
it’s already gone.

I love you.

Please don't ever feel bad on me telling you to concentrate on your studies.

After having lived a life full of challenging and trying circumstances I now know what's important in life.

While studies and career are two interrelated entities that finally yield worldly pleasure for a person, being worldly happy is also important for a human being to be happy spiritually.

I would again say that I love you.

I see in you my own image, and I don't want you to make the same mistakes as I did.

I was just like you when I was your age; I hope that I don't sound like a real parent while I try to give you directions putting your best foot forward in your professional life. I was just like you and I don't want you to make the same mistakes as I made.

Focus on your career first while it is not too late already.