Heartbreak in many ways is a small death, all the same.

A part of you dies when regret is born and you can never get it back while wondering what could have, would have or should have happened.

When your food tastes horrible and the colour fades from the world around you and you are left with what only feels like a fever dream. A low budget version of reality and the writers are all on leave.

Why does this happen? Even though we've seen this film before. Different actors on different days but we all imagine the same ending and we know that there is a plot twist at the end when things don't go the way we thought it would. The way we hoped it would.

Is it perhaps that our hopes and dreams are the leading cause of death? Might we all stop romanticising the idea that our lives are one of the greatest films of all time?

Oftentimes the greatest tragedy is not death but rather the fact that we choose to feel nothing at all. That somehow closing the tap is the answer. Turning off the TV so you don't have to see how it all ends.

Unplug the cables. Throw away the disc. Supress the feeling of wanting more. Out of sight out of mind.

But in order to die, one must live. And if the little death is inevitable, why not live like it isn't? What exactly do you have to lose that you haven't lost already?

Your hair is long and beautiful.

In all its darkness second to none and just a pinch of pure gold, seasoned perfectly to taste.

If it is not that then it is easily the ballerina of your finger dancing graciously around each strand in perfect harmony with the vibrations of the universe but only you and I know that you do this when you are deep in thought.

And I know to watch silently as a masterpiece is being created.

I look up at your eyes and I am quickly reminded of our first date, but I often remember it wrong, so maybe you can help me.

Sometimes I see a luscious field of green and the fresh soil through which our romance bloomed and in others, I see the universe, stars, and galaxies locked behind them of which mankind has yet to discover.

So etch my name in history once more for being the first man to float peacefully among your stratosphere.

In my enamor, I greatly appreciate your existence and for everything we have said and done to bring us to this exact moment.

At this moment, in your eyes and the poise of your hair, I am reminded of the stories we have yet to tell, and here’s to hoping that you will always be there to tell them with me.

Because you always had this enthusiasm for well-told stories and it would not be the same any other way.

The problem is that I was taught
to love God before I learned
to love myself.

I can only love that which looks like me because I have been made in the image of God
so I needed you to look like Him to look like me

so I could love you too.

Every love is a choice, I can love Him
as much as I love you because
I can choose to love you too.

I can say ‘I love you too’ because it is easier than saying ‘I love you’ directly.

We don’t truly know what love means

So I kiss the lips of a nihilist
because that is the love I learned to give.

I love you too but I love you, too.

You know the one?

Where I am walking a tightrope, hundreds of miles up in the air, between two oceans and my heavy body swaying violently from left to right as I am slowly losing my balance trying not to fall into the waters we used to wash away our sins.

I can feel the wind running wildly through my hair as I am looking down despite the cliché advice people tell you when they know you're afraid of heights.

But I can't help it.

I see you all the way down there, sweeping the floor of your empty living room because you refuse to keep any furniture. That's where you and I cross our legs in silent protest against those who think floors were made only for standing.

Our little sandbox. Where you and I talk like we get paid weekly to do so. That's probably why you keep them so clean.

You say 'Maybe' a lot.

I think 'Maybe' is this little alternate universe shaped like a handbag where we shovel all the things we don't feel like dealing with after your morning coffee.

Maybe that's why we're so happy.

You don't even like coffee. You just like what it does to your body. You take your milk and sugar with coffee.

While our time together may be a happy memory to look back on, I'm wildly distracted by mother nature laying waste to my hair as if I didn't just spend a whole 45 minutes getting it just right.

It's cold up here.

I finally lost my balance. Simply because you looked up at me and smiled and in so doing, balloon on the loose, there I went.

And now I am met with a mouthful of salt.

All I give you are middle fingers like ornaments, gifts for you to only look at and you smile anyway, you smile for the both of us because I am hiding mine and you know how bad I am at doing that.

Luckily you taught me how to swim.

Letting go is accepting that something better is waiting for you on the other side.

It's realising that the person who, you hope, will take a bullet to the chest for you is actually the one behind the gun,

Even though you still have time to jump out the way you find yourself debating wether you even want to.

See, we very quickly forget that closeness is a lot more hurtful and damaging than we lead ourselves to believe.

It’s the valentines day morning in the kitchen alone with a cup of coffee, in your pink fluffy robe, fervently reminding yourself that the only love that matters is the one you give yourself yet you know that is a complete load of ****.

It feels cold outside but it’s really not, that’s just you.