There’s something about writing
my feelings for you.

When it hurts,
the pen doesn’t stop.
With every stroke,
it gets darker
and poisonous.

Until it all gets ugly,
The tears smudged the ink.
Because no word,
no phrase
can ever substitute the pain.

All of them are wasted,
crumpled into the shred.
That’s what it’s like
painstakingly
thinking of you.

All of the hurting,
Time had made us
good enough
Not for each other
But for ourselves.

There were too many words
For us to say,
When all we needed
are four simple words.

TIME

TO

LET

GO.