His fingers was dripping poetic justice and his heart was covered in dictionary pages. I remember how he compared the works of Dickinson to how the stars shine in the night sky. I loved the way his eyes sparkle and his heart becomes frantic whenever he talked about the beauty of literature.

But not once when we were "together" did his eyes twinkled when he talked about me. Not once did he looked at me in fascination like how he looked like when he read The Tale of Two Cities. Not once did the hairs on his neck stood when I showed him the poems I made for him. And not once did he offered a word for me.

Beautiful, fascinating, ethereal.
Those are the words he use to describe literature. Those are also the words he never used to describe me.

Does it make you happy that someone just can't wash the memory of you out of their head? Because I told myself I would dissolve your essence in my system. I told myself I wouldn't waste a drop of ink or a single letter for someone I know isn't coming back.

The thought of you is toxic. Every cell in my body is yearning for you to haunt me again. And here I am, writing a poem that you will never, ever, read. I don't even know if you know about this account. Hell, I don't even know if you know I still make poems. I told myself I'd stop writing about you. But every emotion that  triggers a wave of poetry throughout my body is caused by you.

And no matter how much it hurts to do nothing but hope your name appears on my phone again, there is no place in this world I'd rather be than to wait here for you.

It was March 5th when we first met. I never imagined you as someone who I will miss because I never thought you would go away. Today is February 13 and I'm missing you more than ever.

Can we have those long talks about our height difference back? Can we regain the jokes we told each other at 3:45 in the morning? But most importantly, can I have you back?

It never occured to me how much I'm missing you until the mark of the second year of your disappearance is approaching. I never told anyone but I'm still hoping your name pops up in my phone. I'm still aching to see you alive again. You're still the name that I put as my passcode.

I just want you to come back again.

I am a poet because of you.
It's the way your being
delivered a tidal wave of
poetic awakening to my
once dull veins.

Your lips watered
the flowers in my tongue
that were once called prose
but now they developed into poems.

Your fingers latched
perfectly into mine and
your nerves reacted to my nerves so right
and in that moment I knew our hands  were designed for each other.

And although
your tongue left my tongue
and your hand left my hand,
the diabolical mixture of your blissful and painful memories
kept the flowers in my tongue alive.

Soon enough, the flowers
crawled through my arms and hands,
begging me to write
the poetry that they bring.

You will never read this
but I forever thank you,
for I will always be a poet
because of you.

You turned your back on me and let the slowly closing door swallow the image of you walking away. That was the last time we talked. That was the last time you look at me. And I swear to any astrologist in this world that that is how the sun sets.

I saw you at the grocery store today and you asked me if you still have my heart.



I said no.



But if you silence the world and if you stare deep into my eyes, you can hear my heart say the contrary.



It's sad that you do still have my heart. I never gave it to anyone else, I never took it back. It's sad that you are still in there. You will always be the center of my love. You never left. You still own every inch of my love.



And I hate it.