Where did you go?
I see the sun set.
I can actually see it go down.
The world gets darker.

So many bottles of champagne surround me.
I celebrate nothing.
I lose entire days.
But men that look apocalyptic fill me up
Until I put my ***** clothes back on
And trample back to my den.
Worn, apologetic, and wishing it would all pass.

Glittered nails and crooked teeth.
I think back on my past relationship and laugh.
Who was I?
Who was he?
I can't even remember anymore.
And that's a good thing.

I just want on vacation.
A long week in Florida.
Sun.
Oranges.
Kitsch.

I've said it about every ex
I'll say it again.

We're going to be okay.
It may take time.
But one day we will talk.
We will laugh.
And we will smile.
I wish you all the best.
And I know
Deep down
You do too.

we meet at your favourite market- the colombia flower market
ill never understand all the random sundays and countless hours we spent pacing up and down looking at flowers
there's a melancholic mist in the air this sunday
we know it's going to be the last sunday we walk down that road holding hands for some time
but we wave it away with laughter and dig deep into pockets of 'remember that time...'-  that we've saved up over the past few years

i'm terrible with approaching goodbyes- but you know this and you are good to me.
At the stall i look for something else to channel my frustration into,
seated on the ground i say 'we should have gotten the beetroot salad'
you say, 'you shouldn't leave',
and i cry,
and you hold me,
and at this point it's like trying to hold water in your palms with a scorching hot earth beneath your feet,
i melt into you,
i ask you if my heart will eventually stop hurting, if ill be ok.
'let's give it two weeks' you say-
a firm believer in your two week theory passed down from your mother the first time you had  your heart broken that you now apply to every and anything, i nod in faith.

At the bus stop, dread lingers between us... that same melancholic mist hovers, this time it can't easily be waved away.
Your number 47 bus is approaching.
You kiss my dry tear stained lips.

You only seem to love me when im empty
There must be something in that that makes you happy
And ill never understand it.  
The first time I heard the king of sorrow
by sade I felt like I had told her how I felt, took her hands to my chest and let her dig deep.
And she wrote about me.  
There's a difference between writing for someone and about someone
There are no trinkets, no hidden words.
It's all bare.
Like when you're making love to someone even though they're just trying to **** and you bare it all.  
Ive been meaning to write about you. Not for you.    
But ive placed you on a pedestal that wont allow me to.

You'll write their name on your tired body with permanent ink and call it love
Because Aunty said it's beyond what the eye can  see but what the body can feel.
Itll take you months to learn its not the same thing to create this.        
You'll try to make them stay with your wet mouth, with those trembling hands, wisper all the things that would make you stay in that husky voice
But warsan said you cant make homes out of people
And your new mantra is "nothing in this world belongs to me I release it all"  
But you keep it all in slit like creases in your scattered messy heart, and your tender thighs,
And your static and wandering mind.
and my love? My lover? Dont you see the only thing you're letting go of is yourself.