Dec 2016
My dearest,
Some things end too soon, while others continue on without reason or sense. We were somehow both, yet neither, at the same time. And I'm not sure how that can be, it just simply is.
I loved you. Truly and deeply and so, so beautifully. The sky was never bluer than when I was with you. The wind never warmer. And the world never more tolerable, than when I was looking at you. Seeing you, was like taking that first breath after diving to the bottom of the pool. It felt so refreshing and comforting, because once you've held your breath for so long coming up is like seeing things brighter than before.
I think that the concept of love is sometimes a bit misconstrued. We see it as the ultimate goal, the one thing that a person needs to feel before their life is over. We see it as something either hot and heavy, tension and want at all times. Physical attraction. Or we see it as this pure and lovely sort of love, the kind where there is never an unhappy and bitter moment, where the sun always peeks its smile around corners to illuminate it.
But rarely do I hear anything on the love we had. Ours was again, both. It was full of the hot and heavy, the late nights and the lazy afternoons spent together. It was also the warm and hazy kind, with the innocent morning coffees and the evenings with blankets around our shoulders and heads resting on chests. It was arguments and disagreements. It was bittersweet goodbyes and hesitant good mornings afterwards. It was feelings and thoughts and memories and it was so, so much.
It was also you moving on while I stayed behind. It was you standing up and me sitting down. It was you discovering more and me losing everything and you still loving and me also still loving. But the wrong person. You.
And sure, your sky is now bluer and your winds have turned into gentle breezes, but the clouds have started rolling over that gently smiling sun of mine and the gusts of friendly wind don't stir up the butterflies in the pits of my stomach anymore. How can love be this when it was so much more?
I guess that what I'm trying to say is that love is never one thing. It is never just love. It is also gladness and regret and happiness and sorrow and it is building and destroying. And love isn't kind, but my god, it's so addicting.
You've stopped being what I wish on stars for, but you haven't stopped being someone I care for. Not yet.
Claire
Some things end too soon, while others continue on without reason or sense. We were somehow both, yet neither, at the same time. And I'm not sure how that can be, it just simply is.
I loved you. Truly and deeply and so, so beautifully. The sky was never bluer than when I was with you. The wind never warmer. And the world never more tolerable, than when I was looking at you. Seeing you, was like taking that first breath after diving to the bottom of the pool. It felt so refreshing and comforting, because once you've held your breath for so long coming up is like seeing things brighter than before.
I think that the concept of love is sometimes a bit misconstrued. We see it as the ultimate goal, the one thing that a person needs to feel before their life is over. We see it as something either hot and heavy, tension and want at all times. Physical attraction. Or we see it as this pure and lovely sort of love, the kind where there is never an unhappy and bitter moment, where the sun always peeks its smile around corners to illuminate it.
But rarely do I hear anything on the love we had. Ours was again, both. It was full of the hot and heavy, the late nights and the lazy afternoons spent together. It was also the warm and hazy kind, with the innocent morning coffees and the evenings with blankets around our shoulders and heads resting on chests. It was arguments and disagreements. It was bittersweet goodbyes and hesitant good mornings afterwards. It was feelings and thoughts and memories and it was so, so much.
It was also you moving on while I stayed behind. It was you standing up and me sitting down. It was you discovering more and me losing everything and you still loving and me also still loving. But the wrong person. You.
And sure, your sky is now bluer and your winds have turned into gentle breezes, but the clouds have started rolling over that gently smiling sun of mine and the gusts of friendly wind don't stir up the butterflies in the pits of my stomach anymore. How can love be this when it was so much more?
I guess that what I'm trying to say is that love is never one thing. It is never just love. It is also gladness and regret and happiness and sorrow and it is building and destroying. And love isn't kind, but my god, it's so addicting.
You've stopped being what I wish on stars for, but you haven't stopped being someone I care for. Not yet.
Claire
A sequel to my other poem "The theory of letting go." I see a series in the future.
