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Writing you poems seemed like a good way to break my heart.
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that only the heartbreak is good enough
to qualify as poetry.
all the roller-coaster rush
and the picnics on the hill
and the first time your hands brush together
on your first date and they take yours
to fill the gaps between their finger,
and the aimless walks looking for
somewhere to eat
and the first time they said i love you
but it wasn’t perfect
so they’d written you a poem
because that seemed closer
to perfect
than those three words —
somehow, at some point,
all of these gets overlooked
like words in a history book
he wouldn’t read even if he was stuck with it in a dream.

the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that it is falling in love with a stranger
who writes poetry at 8 am or 10 pm, hoping
to find his lover back in front of him
when he reaches the last word and raises up his head.
it is falling in love
with someone whose walls seem to echo
the first time they said i love you
three years ago,
it is falling in love with someone
who could still be writing about the love of his life
and sometimes, the consonants
in her name
look like the
vowel in yours
but it’s not you, honey,
it’s just
not you.

he said i shouldn’t mistake
falling in love with his words
for falling in love with him,
so i thought
how could that be, when his words
were the words i wanted to kiss?
how could that be, when he was
the poetry i wanted to read?

one time,
i asked him if he would write me a poem
if he ever fell out of love.

and he said he would never fall out of love.

and he did.

without any warning —
without any melancholic farewell,
or messy kisses on the kitchen floor,
or desperate pleads for us to stay.
he fell out of love with me —
without writing any heartbreak poem;

but then again, maybe it was because
all heartbreak poems, even if it was us falling apart,
would still be written for you.

the night he left,
he forgot to take his poetry collection
all written in the tattered pages
of that black notebook i got him,
and it was full of pages folded in halves
and it was full of your name in lazy scribbles
and it was full of his words
wanting you back.

it was the night we broke up
yet it was still you, breaking his heart —

it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
he loved me.
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
i was you.
An attempt at a spoken poetry piece
And I hope one day, you meet her in some historic street, or in an old bookstore, or in some countryside field, and I hope she loves the way you speak with your lisp, and I hope she likes the films you like, and I hope she writes you poetry at 2 am. And I hope her words finally feel like the kind of home you’ve been looking for — the kind of home you’ll grow old in and never leave, and the one you never found in me.
you stood there with sadness
braided to your locks,
and i was pretty used to making homes out of sadness,
and your eyes — they made me think
of both writing poems and running away;
i chose the former
and you chose to smile;
and smiling back felt like jumping
inside a book found in the bottom
of shared beer bottles,
and yet, we read it sober
with our fingers touching
when we’d turn to the next page
and darling, that was how we met.

and there we were gazing at the stars
wrapped in a sunset;
and we named them love
written for a wolf
trapped in a girl’s skin
and a girl dressed
in bleeding moonlights
and together,
we crashed into a fray, unworthy
of being written poems about.
and i loved you so f*cking much,
and even more so because
you couldn’t love yourself
and darling, kissing wasn’t
the most romantic thing we ever did —
it was running away from the world
and darling, that was how
we fell in love.

and running away
was our kind of poetry,
and running away got tiresome
after four books and a couple of heartaches.
and we ended.
like an anticlimactic poem
written by fading silhouettes
atop an abandoned building
as the rest of the world
caught fire and crashed down.
and there you were,
a piece of a debris
escaping my lips and sinking down,
like words in the middle
of a poem i could no longer write,
and i, a pronoun
you could no longer love.
and that was how
we became ashes
without dancing with the flames —
how we became a million pieces
of broken kisses
inside a poem made for two.

and that was how
we became strangers again, darling —

and that was how
cigarettes still taste a little like our last kiss — like it's 5 am again and we were stuck in rusty rooftops, waiting for the break of dawn, or for the other to initiate the kiss. that being said, i always wished that 5 am's lasted longer, and that cigarettes burned longer, and that we kissed longer. but before we knew it, the sun had risen and there we were, ashing our cigarettes on the floor, kissing our last kiss. but here i am, darling — yours for the breaking; my cigarettes, yours for the taking — so kiss me again. break me again. leave me again.

say goodbye to me, darling. say goodbye, just once again.
if we're all about
lazy, blanket-cuddles
mixed with Radiohead songs
and missing breakfast
in the morning,

if we're all about playing
Russian roulettes with
our anxiety triggers
and chasing them down
with *****,

if we're all about
untouched calendars
and jokes that aren't funny
and telling them anyway
and not saying
i love you's,

i love what we're all about.
i love not saying
i love you's
with you.
i love this
kind of us.
please, touch me everywhere
it hurts.
touch these 300 cuts,
more or less,
my ribs —
breaking like museum columns,
my lips —
chapped from being sober
for a week.
please, touch me,
until misery feels
less familiar
than happiness.
touch me until deep talks
aren't about dying,
until walking away from life
feels less profound
than walking away
from omelas.

please, touch me everywhere
it hurts, darling;
i want to go through
all my breakdowns
in your arms.

please, touch me everywhere it hurts.

please touch me.

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