I know my shattered heart better than you do.
I know that one day, it’ll heal and I’ll be better and maybe then I’ll be fine.
but not tonight, or tomorrow or now.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
because no amount of cookie butter ice cream will fix this.
no amount of super glue will bind the broken pieces of my heart together
no amount of anaesthesia can mask the hurt.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
you’ll break my heart further, and further,
pulverise it ‘till it’s gone
and leave me wondering if the pleasure was worth the pain.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
the bags under my eyes will say otherwise,
the thin line of my smile will betray that,
and the dull sheen of my eyes will tell the lies.

don’t tell me I’m fine,
when all the nights I spent waking and thinking of you still happen,
when I forget the songs I used to love because of you,
when I still dream of you and wake up with tear-soaked pillows.

don’t tell me I’m fine,

because when I see you happy it makes it worthwhile
and it makes me realise what happened to me–
the life went out of me when you went into mine

don’t tell me I’m fine,
I’m more than a used lifeline,
I’m more than a sugarcoated line,
I’m more than the girl you left me behind.

don’t tell me I’m fine,

because I know I’m not.
because I know you’re not.

because I know we’re not.

I should stop thinking about you
when a song plays over the buzz of caffeine drinkers’ talk
and I immediately track back to our first dance
when you took me in your arms

I should stop thinking about you
when I pass by the bookstore
and see your favourite book, on the raised shelf
and remember your fingers as you ghost every page like they ghosted over my spine

I should stop thinking about you
it’s dangerous during daytime
to daydream meeting you around the corner
and kissing your neck like I always want to

I should stop thinking about you
you’re a boondoggle in my headspace
day and night, always out of sight
but never, ever out of my mind

I should stop thinking about you
how we looked at stars when we should have gone home
how you told me lines from my favourite book
and held my hand because you simply wanted to

it felt
right.

you feel
like the best movie on Friday nights
snuggled up in pyjamas
a comfort I would never exchange

you feel
right.

but right isn’t always the end
and sometimes we have to take the left turn
to find the end of the road

where we found ourselves
three years ago

I still think of you
during the fall
when autumn leaves drop
softly, like I did
for you

I still think of you
on cold nights
wondering if you’re warm
if the scarf I gave you is still holding up

I still think of you
during the summer
how you would go to my house
and ask me to go on bike rides

I still think of you
whenever springtime rolls around
a different place, every break
a different adventure, we would take

but now
that’s all gone
memories and stories
but we no longer exist

and

I should stop thinking about you
but I can’t

I am not a romantic person.
I do not look at you when the sun sets at five.
I do not search for your gaze in a crowd of simmering strangers.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not spend my time waiting for you in the corridor–
looking for your familiar dimpled grin in the face of another.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not feel the butterflies flying amok when you say my name
or when you crane your neck and twinkle your eyes at me.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not make mixtapes and send them to you discreetly
or write long prose in memory of what can be.
I am not a romantic person.

I do not hope for the day when our fingers will intertwine–
like it’s second nature; no thought process involved.

I am not a romantic person.

I do not see myself in the one whose arms hold you tight.
I do not wish for me to fill the gaps between what makes it real and what makes you feel loved.

I am not a romantic person.

And I tell you this–

even though I am.

I am not a romantic person.
I do not look at you when the sun sets at five.
I do not search for your gaze in a crowd of simmering strangers.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not spend my time waiting for you in the corridor–
looking for your familiar dimpled grin in the face of another.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not feel the butterflies flying amok when you say my name
or when you crane your neck and twinkle your eyes at me.
I am not a romantic person.
I do not make mixtapes and send them to you discreetly
or write long prose in memory of what can be.
I am not a romantic person.

I do not hope for the day when our fingers will intertwine–
like it’s second nature; no thought process involved.

I am not a romantic person.

I do not see myself in the one whose arms hold you tight.
I do not wish for me to fill the gaps between what makes it real and what makes you feel loved.

I am not a romantic person.

And I tell you this–

even though I am.