It all comes back to you.
A premature declaration of love,
hundreds of cigarettes,
several one night stands,
many bottles of *****,
sleepless nights,
pep talks,
and six months later,
I still miss you when you are gone.
The hopelessness that surrounds me when the comfort of your presence in our apartment building is absent is almost indescribable,
if it weren't a precise forecast of one millionth of despair I'd feel when you eventually leave for good.
That despair I'm certain is going to feel like a gun shot would to the spleen.
I know I'm not your type of girl,
considering our only common denominator is nicotine,
when we cannot even find a film or a song we both like,
let alone anything in between.
It is evident you are far from my ideal type of guy, except
I think you are the guy.
Mixed signals and star patterns apart,
when you helped unzip that play suite,
there was nothing confusing or unclear about the shock of electricity that followed your touch from my neck to the waist down my spine.
They all say we look great together,
and I always think only if how great I felt when I was with you could be painted, photographed or just captured in some mainstream form for them to see,
the definition of absolute greatness.
But I am not much more than the smartphone you leave in your room,
the same owner and little use.
I dislike physics and gaming, as much as you detest large crowds and dancing,
but I idealize the thought of being different together,
which I know you don't.
Metaphorical or not you wondered out loud what it would be like,
so let me tell you,
I will be the lights out and shy kind of girl,
I will be submissive, amateur and giddy,
it would be absolutely indescribable, except
I am certain it will resemble the first time one sees the Northern Lights only a million times more incredible,
when you must truly experience it to know the feeling.
The fact of the matter is I obviously never stopped needing you, and
apparently didn't succeed at not showing it either.
The bottom line is when you are not sleeping in your room two floors above my own,
I really miss you very much, and
it's a lot worse than missing you when you are casually sprawling across my bed.
I wonder if you maybe feel one millionth the same...

If you knew, if you even had the slightest idea
how incredibly fragile my smile is,
how acute my craving for affection is,
how lost, broken and lonely I feel,
how every bone, every single cell of my body aches to just feel your warmth,
how emotionally hungover I get each time I close the door of your flat behind me,
I wonder if I'll still be your Friday night girl...

I don't want to be your
Friday night girl,
one night stand,
end of a busy week's treat,
or pastime.

I definitely don't want to be your
fetish,
score,
drunk companion,
or ****** relief.

If I'm being perfectly honest (to myself),
I'm rather confident,
I don't want to be anything of yours at all...

My sweet sweet girl,
you should know that in this land of tormenting coldness
and mind numbing loneliness
you are my ray of hope.
We all need a source of positivity to draw on
and you are mine.
To laugh out loud for no apparent reason
to get drunk with on a Thursday afternoon
to talk about world politics, boys and the future
you are my partner in crime
the best wing woman
cheerleader
all in one.
Ironic isn't it?
Because I am that to many
and I used to think I was that too.
I guess sometimes even saviours need saving.
I was like you once, many many years ago.
Expecting the best of everything and everyone,
looking at the world through large, bright and sparkly lens of positivity.
I still do.
I still think there's something magical about snow,
stop in my tracks to watch jet paths in the sky,
give the benefit of the doubt to everyone,
and keep searching for Prince Charming.
Only difference is I now identify myself as delusional,
as opposed to optimistic.
The thing is love,
once you find yourself doubled up on the floor,
with every single blood cell infused with *****,
crying out to a God you perhaps no longer believe in,
to just bring you sleep, just this once,
so you can sleep through all this pain and darkness,
there is no turning back.
You can no longer unsee, unhear, undo, unbreak,
change becomes inevitable.
It used to be that if you don't bleed you are not ill,
so no one took us folk seriously when we said it hurts.
So the ******* shrinks drew a list of symptoms,
which did not include big smiles and out going personalities disguising the excruciating burning inside,
so once again no one really believes us when we say it hurts.
Unless we **** ourselves and finally everyone gathers around
with their shocked expressions of disbelief to claim,
'but she looked so happy',
when the first thing we all learnt was how looks could be deceiving.
Everyone looks for love in different places and have different ways of loving.
Specially parents.
You see I thought I broke and hit rock bottom many years ago.
To be honest it wasn't until my mother turned her back on me
that I realized what the definition of broken was.
Parents love their children and God knows mine loves me,
but on nights like this I just want to hear from my mother
that she loves me and believes in me,
but all I remember is the look in her eyes.
It was hatred. It was pure hatred.
Months later after supposedly patching up everything,
that look haunts me,
and breaks me a little bit more every single time.
But I am delusional so I see something profoundly poetic
in my brokenness.
I now truly know what the world holds.
So next time I see someone throwing her head back with a smile little too wide stealing the show,
I'm going to appreciate her effort so much more,
because its not easy to remain delusional.
I hope this world will only bring the very best to you.
I hope you will only know love, acceptance, admiration and success.
As for me,
I hope one day I will be able to stop getting broken,
or in the least get used to the pain.

The harshest truth about unrequited love is
when all is done and dusted
hands washed
rejection accepted
there is nothing left.
All the talk about memories made,
to have loved and lost than not love at all,
to have made a friend forever,
is a load of ******* to be honest,
like your puppy who was sent to a big, happy farm in the country side,
like Santa Claus,
like telling yourself in the mirror over and over again "you are over him. you are happy".
So when he's sat cross legged on your bed calculating the final chess move to checkmate with a devilish look in the eye,
limping around on a sprained ankle after football,
explaining how light works,
cutting an extra large pizza into four and folding each quarter in half before devouring it,
moving close to show a ******* star pattern only he can see,
giving a pair of ******* gloves for Christmas cause your favourite pair was lost on a night out in October,
always lighting your cigarette first,
casually mentioning over dinner how he might move to Belgium next spring for an internship,
you have no say. You have no right to feel.
You have no right to say how you feel.
So you pretend,
admiring the ******* star patterns you could never see in the first place,
acting tensed when he hugs,
congratulating him on the amazing job opportunity taking extra care to make sure your smile is wide and reaches your eyes.
You pretend,
putting to use 16 years of professional drama training,
regardless of having an out-of-body experience each time he does something that takes your breath away,
where you watch yourself crumble to the floor, face flat, gasping for air, one hand on the chest and the other over the mouth,
while you stand strong, smoking and smiling,
listening to him talk about electricity, FIFA  or something,
all while watching yourself die, from the corner of your eye.
Unrequited love is superbly overrated,
by poets, artists, writers and all those who have loved and lost.
In reality it's a simple phenomenon which drives one to the mental intersection of insanity, self-destruction and creativity,
caused by a sense of ownership one feels towards another which is nonexistent, not reciprocated, not mutual and really ****** up.
So really don't get up or stand up,
infact don't even bother to feel,
cause you really have no rights...

I wonder if you knew
when you turned the lights out
closed my bedroom door
and stood behind me
by the large misty window
to point out a star pattern
in the night sky
all I wanted was to turn around
and watch their reflection
in your eyes.

I wonder if you knew
at that very moment
those stars felt far more close to me
than you were...

To get to sleep tonight
on the same pillow
your head had laid
moments before
knowing all I'll ever have
is your lingering scent
and my imagination...