The first time we ever spoke,
I thought you were annoying.

I asked you what your favourite colour was.
You said
"White, because when thinking in terms of the light spectrum, it is the combination of all the colours. When you look at a white light, you are actually looking at colours that human eyes can't even process. You are looking right at them, and you can't see them, but they are still there."

I thought that was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

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I was sent to a white palace when I found out what happened to you.
I searched for you in every windowless room.

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Our romance was a
flash flood in the middle of a drought,
quenching my parched soil,
and then drowning all forms of life for miles around,
but it was over far too soon
and left me ravaged,
yet thirsty for more.

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I took my new husband-to-be to the place where you and I met.
He didn't leave my side the entire time
and we listened to the music echoing around the mountains
while he said beautiful things that I would have died to hear you say
and he kissed me in front of everyone,
just like I used to dream that you would,
but you never did.



I realize now that you weren't my soul mate,
but believe me when I say that
I did love you.

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I still don't know what to think when I look back on it.
My open and paranoid mind
can never draw definite conclusions
as to what truly happened.
Reality is subjective.

All I know is that this world is much more quiet than it used to be without your constant chatter that I thought was annoying when we first met,
and the only closure I will ever get
is accepting that part of who I once was died with you,
but an even larger part of who you were lives on within me.

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My favourite colour is white now.

I have loved you.

i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.