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But you will soon leave back to the place you have been longing for.
And when you get there, another woman will find her way into your veins. She will pull my hairs out from your carpet, wash my fingerprints from your walls, and throw out my skeleton that you kept in the closet. She will try to lay me to rest, but I will always be restless. I will be doomed to haunt a heart that never belonged to me and to linger in the moment when our eyes first met.
I cannot go back to the place I have been longing for.
Last night, I dreamt about him. In my dream, he told me that he loved me, we kissed, we touched. I woke alone, heartbroken, but also a bit relieved. He’s moving away, and it’s time for us to bury out love. A part of me still believes that we just met at the wrong time.
Isn’t is strange how we notice things when it is too late?
This is probably the last time that all of us will be in the car together. There will be no more midnight drives from hillside theatres. No more 2am dinner plans at kerbey lane.
This is the first time that I have noticed that you twirl your hair when you drive. My eyes have shifted from cityscapes flying across backseat windows to watching you wrap your hair around your finger.
It’s not slow and flirtatious, but quick and desparate, as if you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that we are growing up. It’s making me anxious, but I can’t look away.
This is the first time that I noticed the change in our silence. We are driving down nearly empty highways, and we are leaving behind our time. We are no longer laughing, and this silence doesn’t feel like it usually does. For once, none of us have anything to say. Or maybe, we know that there is not enough time to say all of the things that we should and want to say.
This is when I noticed how much I love driving down empty highways at midnight. Everything is slow, there is no rush, and, for once, there are no expectations of me.
I am finally, truly noticing that there will never be enough time to tell you all that I love you,
to hear you talk about science,
to hear about your travels,
to talk to you about your struggles,
to drive, and laugh, and cry with you,
to watch you twirl you hair.
Now, we have grown up, and our distances will strain our years of friendships,
and there will never be enough time with you.
Seeing your warm body leave,
which has lain besides me
up to now,
makes me feel empty
but also full,
because now you are a part
of me.
I'm dying to see you again.
You say you can't believe in god.
I trust in god, like I trust in physics.

Your world has been shattered.
Mine is safe and sound.

You went through despair and death.
I've seen not more than flowers wither.

Your unfaith is made by experience.
My faith is made by the words of others.

You're confident of your philosophy.
I just trust in faith.

A tunnel separates us.
You went through it and lost god.

I wonder whether I'll lose him too.
Often I think that's it. The way I want things to be.
My future life.
Think this is gonna be my wonderful home.
We can grow old like this.
Together.

At good times I'm convinced of that.
But sometimes the thoughts getting dark and sinister.
Bonding is binding.
I won't do it half-heartedly.
I'm afraid of sharing my life.
Losing my control.
Relinquishing my independence.

And then I see you and everything lights up and I ask myself:
Why are you hiding your life?
It should be OUR life.
OUR control.
OUR independence.
Take a wedge of cheese.
Hold it into the sun.

Look through the holes.

I'm the cheese.
You are my eyes.
The world shines through you.
I'm melting away.
Cheesy cheese is happy.
That love which once made me feel comely like a petal.
Is now the same love , bruising me with its thorns.
That love!!
My past is too much of an influence on my present,
I know it's a problem.
But whenever I look in the bathroom mirror,
I see my 15 year old self,
A cigarette hanging out of her mouth
Just like the one that is currently in my mouth.  
Her hair is still dyed dark purple and out of control,
Spiking out of her head
Like she just stuck her finger in a light socket.  
She takes the cigarette out of her mouth
And smoke clouds up the mirror.  
I watch her hand reach up through the smoke
Into the real world and take my cigarette
Out of my mouth and toss it in the trash.  
I can't decide whether I've gone completely crazy
Or if that encounter was the
Best thing that ever happened to me.  
Why can't it be both?
I decided to try an exercise where I looked at a painting and then wrote a poem about it, and this is what came out of it.  Let me know what meaning you find in it. :)
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