I miss you
sometimes
just enough
so that it hurts.

When I feel like
I'm living in limbo,
one half step away
from falling apart,
I think of you
as a panacea
for all of the quiet thoughts
and dead stares.

When I find myself
painting canvases black
at three in the morning
and pressing my nails
into my wrists
just to feel
something,
I wish you were here
to coax me into bed
and kiss me
like you never did.

I miss you,
selfishly and
shamelessly.

And it twists
and slides through
my fingers like paint-
beautiful useless emotion.

in some ways, i wish to forget you.
to let go of how your words hurt so much inside my heart,
how you left me to myself;
                                                 alone.
in other ways, i can’t stop trying to remember
the times we had - the hopes, dreams, thoughts whispered to each other.
the hope of a better place and time, where we could be together, as one.

i cannot forget you.
but i will always hold close the things i choose to remember:
our juvenile, silly promises,
rather than the lost hopes that will always remain inside my heart.

you were a clock always ticking and
the beat of your heart a metronome
you were a bomb and
i did not know when you might burst.
you were combustible
an incendiary grenade
and i was the gasoline
to your wildfires.

you were at war with the world
your mind a battleground
and i cried when you asked me
whether i wondered if life was worth living
perhaps because
i myself did not know

when i went to bed at three in the morning
i still woke up in the middle of the night
i dreamt my heart had burst open, ripped at its seams
still beating faster than death could seize our time on this earth
i asked you why it was that
life is this way

you were an hourglass
trying make to time stand still.
and while i went to every corner of the world
to buy each and every clock that existed,
still, i did not know how to stop it for you.
i did not know how to save a life
when i could not live my own
correctly.

you were a ticking time bomb,
ready to explode;
and i could not clip the wires
of your mind.

Sometimes the heart is just wrong
Dead wrong
Listen to something else

Maybe,
It's the other way round.
Poetry writes us!