i've been in love four times
almost five
but i stopped myself
like the moment you feel like telling someone the truth about something
because they seem like the kind of person you can trust
with something serious and personal and intense,
but then you stop yourself before
it's too late to take it back,
it was like that,
it was just like that.

i've been in love four times
and in a way, they were all small
repetitions of the first
but i think first love is like that,
when it ends, you just want to find it again
but you can't and so you keep trying
and then eventually
you go insane
with repeating the same thing over and over again
while expecting a different outcome.

and it's like reverse repetition
when you stop looking for someone to fill
your holes. and i never thought i'd get to this point,
being content with, finding solace even,
in the possibility of dying
alone.
perhaps its because everybody leaves, but
it's not really that,
it's just that i think at this point
i would be the one
to leave them.

I fell in love with the way
You told me you'd always be there
And how you complimented
My every flaw
And said I was perfect to you

I fell in love with the way
We are so alike
And how our personalities
Tangle like ivy around an old cottage

I fell in love with the way
You made me feel like nothing else matters
Despite the darkening depression
Deep inside my soul
And the anxiety that riddles me
You made me feel like I was normal
And told me I was still beautiful to you

And ill always love the little things
About you that make me fall hopelessly
In love with you
And I hope, my love, you do not realise
That actually I'm not normal
And actually I'm not perfect
But maybe
Just maybe I'm normal and perfect
To you.

Anxiety.
Conserve.
Conservatory.
Shakespeare.
Man.
Monk.
****.
I ******.
I'm better.
Expulsion.
Breathe.
Friend.
Not friend.
Friend.
Best friend.
Awkward.
I still have that.
Dress.
Tights.
Queen.
Mill.
Birthday.
Song.
500.
Guitar.
Te­ars.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgic.
Dead.
You're dead.
You're dying.
I'm dying.
I'm dead.
I'm not dead.
24.
You're blonde.
I'm not blonde.
I'm old.
I'm still old.
I'm a child.
I'm going to cry.
Stop.
I don't cry.
No more crying.
I'm allowed to cry here.
That's why I cry here.
I'm allowed.
I can do what I want.
I know what I want.
I have no idea what I want.
But I think that's what I want.
I'm not doing what I want.
But this is enough.
It's not enough.
I'll make it enough.
Where am I?
24.
Twenty.
Four.

Stop thinking.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.