I keep on saying your name
through the air
or within my head,
until it no longer sounds the same;
until it doesn't give me
the chills it has offered before;
until it no longer holds
the very meaning of love.
Because a poet once said
that when you repeat something
over and over again,
it slowly loses the meaning
it once had;
Perhaps, one day,
I will eventually get tired
of mentioning your name;
I just don't know
when will it happen
for now.

I still love you. You still cross my mind. You don't actually cross it, you dwell in it. When I stumble at a new song, or hear some anecdote, I instantly have the urge to share it with you and imagine how we would enjoy it or laugh at it for days. I miss our language. A language that only us could fathom and be fluent at. I miss our details, that belong to us and can't be worn by any other being. I loved you so deeply that I dyed myself in your colours and chopped from me many patches and gave them to you. Isn't this what love is supposed to be? Giving with no hope for a return, giving and in giving you feel whole, giving and in giving you validate pain