I knew it didn't work like that.
I knew loving someone was always going to be a game.
Whether or not you admit that,
is always up to the players involved.
I chose to play,
I chose to revere in the wins and try to overlook the losses.
(I never really could.)
It wasn't even necessarily a game of luck,
like people would assume,
because there was no Cupid's arrow.
It's about the way someone words something purposely,
the way someone grabs your hand with urgency,
the way they meet your lips,
like they're introducing themselves in every form,
like you just deciphered their entire childhood from the tip of their tongue.
Love is just a game,
love is a waiting game.
One where you sit and gaze
at a wall full of time zones,
a wall full of clocks at different hours,
and you don't know what the hell hour you're in because they're all the same to you.
2 a.m. and 2 p.m. become identical,
night never leaves.
The moon never sinks back down for the sun to rise,
there's no beauty to the sky if it's never lit,
maybe that's how you perceived me,
like a sky that's never lit,
something that can't be beautiful if all it is,
is darkness.
Overwhelming,
monotonous,
deafening darkness.
I'm sorry for being a vexed loser when it came to love,
always lamenting about the pain,
and how you bluffed.
How you cheated.
How you caught me off guard.
How you played so unscrupulously,
while I was still learning the rules.
How you didn't think to tell me
love was a game,
until you had already won.