I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leading you on and repeating it. I’m sorry for allowing your feelings to bask in the sunlight of my deceit while playing the strings of false hope with my tongue that produced lies as the tunes of our make-believe love-guitar just to get under your clothes. I’m sorry that I kissed your lips without intending to kiss your soul. I’m sorry that I said I love you when I didn’t mean it and for engaging you  without engaging  guilt . I’m sorry I promised forever when I knew there was no beginning; and I hate myself for knowing that I started a chapter in a book not worth writing. I’m sorry for saying “yes” when I meant “no” and saying “come when I meant “go”. I despise that I was too immature to let you pass by and I frown at myself for not turning my “hi” into a “bye”. To every girl I’ve played before: I’m sorry.

My favorite road is ‘memory lane’ because it leads to a place I love to be. A Place where laughter isn’t hard to come by and smiles aren’t so expensive to buy. A place where worry and anxiety are strange faces And depression and loneliness are rare cases. A place where forgiveness is accessed in an instant  and grudges always seem to be distant. A place where duty is fun and the closest thing to ****** is a water gun. A place where my bills pay themselves and clothes magically get folded and  sit in my shelves. A place where non-skeptical conformity can be tolerated because belief is easy. My eyes are shut by bars of the present but tears still escape their prison and dance along to the sad realization that I may never see that place again for one good reason; I am grown now. The closest things to true happiness are my childhood memories, so I spend my time walking down memory lane. Hoping that the further I walk down the road, the closer I get to the place I love to be.

I’m drawn to her by forces I can’t verbally express so I will draw this to you. Enchanted by her very existence. Her presence is like a drop of water on the tongue of a desert man panting for a drink; just enough to have a taste of what could quench the thirst of my heart But doesn’t really. She’s My crush so I’m definitely afraid. Afraid to text cause I could easily be another clown trying to slide so I maintain my position at the sidelines of her life, pretending I can’t see her while I watch 22 other undeserving dudes play. I could wave but that could chase her away cause she’s ‘fly’. So I sit in my chair and have day dreams of my dream girl. She’s so close yet so far away. So mine and yet not. I’m in love with the thought of ‘us’ but I know that’s impossible. I could hope to have her one day but it’s easier to hope that my feelings fade away.

Their bodies broke up when their spirits got together; when her soul said yes to his soul. Their ears didn’t need the dimming echoes of spoken words for them to hear each other anymore. Without looking, he saw how high her smile went and she could trace how low his frown went with the stencil of her compassion.
When her fingertips tickled the edges of his palms ever-so gently, she would  know just exactly what thoughts ran through his enchanted mind—she was his gypsy.
Their love transcended into the metaphysical: where shapes, forms, sizes and colour didn’t form the frame of the reality of their bond. Their unity was an emblem of spirituality.
Their souls intertwined; he was her Christ cause he was her vine and she was his branch that bore a fruit that they couldn’t help but eat and eat and eat and..eat.
Mimicking each other’s actions became instinctive; If she cried, he cried. If he was hurting, she was hurting.
Saying ‘I love you’ didn’t make sense anymore cause ‘I’ was ‘we’, ‘love’ was ‘breath’ and ‘you’ was ‘us’.
He became one with the stars cause when he strayed into the vastness of her mind he encountered a whole universe. He felt like the planets cause his world revolved around her light.
Death couldn’t ‘do them part’ because the death was their beginning.

Afraid to sleep because I’m haunted by her ghost. Afraid to stay awake cause she is not here anymore. So I try to strike a balance between being asleep and being awake and it’s called ‘anti-depressants’. I would rather be awake and feel nothing than face the fact that I lost the love of my life. See, when she died, my heart lost the ability to stand so I sit in my chair and sniff.., and puff.., and inject.., and swallow the only form of peace this world can give me. My church disowned me for being a ‘drag addict’ but they don’t get. I’m not addicted to the drug, I’m addicted to the peace. I would rather bout the police than accept help from people that don’t get it. I can’t pretend I’m okay anymore so I’m here to tell the world I’m a crack-head. I’m hard-hit!life’s share of being mean? I’ve had it. hope? I baged it. I’m dead meat, I admit.. that I’ve lost a grip but.. I have an answer in the form of trip..to a world of euphoria, where I don’t see her  ghost or feel her absence.

You’re beautiful..you should take a nice picture ..potariat..in a suit so we can use it on your casket..what? Don’t look at me like you think you’re going to be around forever. Maybe you forgot that every second is a step closer to your grave and every minute that passes will never be returned.. that every hour deposited can never be reclaimed..death may be complicated but it’s inception can partially be explained. The dust of your body and the dust of the ground will one day have *** and give birth to nothing but memories of who you were before you died. And When Jesus asks your Lazarus to come fourth, nothing but your legacy will walk out of that grave.man decays like a rotten thing job 13 28..He comes fourth Like a flower and fades away job 14 2..he flees like a shadow and does not continue..here today and gone tomorrow.. that breath ain’t yours cause **** it’s borrowed..There’s hope for a tree if it is cut down ,that at the scent of water it will bud and bring forth branches that sprout again and that it’s tender shoots will not cease but man dies and is laid away..You’re beautiful.. you should take a nice picture..portrait.. in a suit..

I was in love while she was in a game of chess— This was nothing but a struggle between black and white; between love and hate; between purity and bait.
She loved before and was too broken to love again while she was my first.
She was so broken that to her  my ‘I love yous’,though genuine, were nothing but  pawns moving to weaken her defenses. I tried to be sweet but she **** saw those moves before. My flowers were knights and kisses were rooks because while I was in love she was in a game of chess.
When I couldn’t love anymore and she couldn’t play anymore, it was to me a heartbreak and to her a checkmate.
Now I’m playing chess too. Who’s next?