you didn't blow up my world. you didn't. losing you didn't feel like the apocalypse and there's no way i'm crying over you. two years of holding your calloused hands in mine wasn't the highlight of my life. seeing your hair fade from deep rich shades of purple to a light airy lavender never made my heart stop. i can't even remember how many times i had to remind myself that you were even mine. because you wouldn't do it for me.

i learned how much you love to hold on. your knuckles are white. your room is full to bursting with little useless things and i never once wondered why you don't throw them away. you don't know me better than i know myself. i can't pick you out from a crowd and right now i don't want to. the fact that you broke up with me over text doesn't bother me anymore. or at least that's the story i'm going with this time. i already forgot the exact words you said.

you didn't blow up my world, you tilted it on it's axis. the day i lost you was the day the world kept going on without me instead of ending like it was supposed to. i can't cry over you because i can't even breathe. years with you have shown me that my life is all highlighted. you make even my broken childhood feel like a dream. the ever shifting color of your hair never stopped my heart because it could only go faster and faster to keep pace with your laugh as i twisted it around my fingers. you never reminded me in words, you did it with your sure steady gaze as you walked me all the way to the end of your driveway when i had to go.

you love holding on to broken things because you're worried that no one else will love them. that's why you held on to me. and you will never know me like i know me because you always believed me to be better than i am. you made me see the light in myself even after i called myself a black hole. i see you in every place we used to share and i don't ever want to pick you from a crowd because i'm scared i'll run to you. i don't remember what you said when you let me go because i'm still holding on. my knuckles are white too.

and i'm so sorry that i don't hate you

whose voice will you read my poems in
after my bones have long been lying in my own second hand smoke

will you be able to remember how my youth sounded
by the time you read them again

loving you
is like
tasting
white hot
flames

but
missing you
is smoke
in my eyes