She told me she loves me,
like how the sea remains,
even if the shore shoves it away.
On the day she left,
I thought of the words she said.
I shouldn't have felt secured then,
for she compared her love for me,
to the shallowest part of the sea.
She did not love me deeply.

She lends her pen,
to thoughts of him,
that flow from it,
in her solitary.

For she is his poet,
And he is her poetry.*

-Lang Leav

Not once did I say I love you.
Not to them.
Not to you.
Not to myself.

But if it wasn’t love,
How can these feelings linger for so long?
Is it the fact that you were never mine?
Well, not mine in the normal sense.

You were my best friend.

Sometimes,
I think my letter is what made you leave,
But that can’t be true.
You left long before I even wrote the letter.

There were letters before that.
I wrote them late at night
When I couldn’t get you out of my head.
Those letters never met paper.
They all sit on my computer
And in my heart.

The letters that begged you to stay.
I wrote that you should go,
But you would know to stay.

The letters that told you I was lost.
I wrote that I was fine without you,
But you would know I am crumbling.

Maybe it’s because you know me so well.
You know me better than I know myself.

Maybe it’s because not only do you know me,
But I know you
Better than you would ever admit.

Is that why you cut me off?
You don’t want me to know you anymore,
Or do you not want to know me?
Or, maybe,
You already know how much you hurt me,
Without me ever saying a word.

I don’t want to believe it was love,
So I’m never going to say I loved you.
Not to them.
Not to you.
Never to myself.

When she cries,
She usually hides.

When she smiles,
Her happiness will fade in a while

When she's alone,
Her thoughts will be flying like a drone

When she's afraid,
Her mind would definitely be in rage

When she's in love,
She would really treasure what she have