May 2013
This won’t be the last time I write about him.
But it will be the last time I try.
You see, I can’t say I won’t write about him again. Because at one point in my life, he was my world. And when someone is in your life and changes you so much, like he did, I don’t think they ever leave you. The person you were with them might be gone, but the person they were- they’re always with you. That’s the thing. When you love someone, you don’t ever stop. You kind of carry the people you love around with you. They’re pieces of you, you know? There is a piece of me that loved him and still loves him and always will. And when I write, pieces of me and the people I love and the people I’ve lost spill out of me. And I think, as long as I write, some part of me will still be writing about him. Without even trying.
They say that if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
I think you fall in love with a lot of different people, just in a different way. Not in a romantic way, not always. I think you fall in love with these different people, and you keep them inside of you and parts of them become parts of you. And so all these people I’ve loved, all these people that I’ve collected inside of me- they won’t ever die.
Because I write about them all.
They will be kept alive long after I will, in the words I have written about their smiles and about the way they have made me laugh. They will be kept alive in the fragments of a sentence that I have written about how they broke my heart. They will be kept alive in the letters I have written so I don’t forget how they fixed my heart.
And so he’ll never die, because I fell in love with him. I did. But I’m not in love with him anymore- though I still do love him.
I love him in a different way now. I love him because he was everything I needed nine months ago and he was good to me and he was all I could have hoped for. He saved me when I was about to give up.
And for that, I’ll always love him. I’ll always be writing about him, deep down.
But today is last time I try.
*a.g.
But it will be the last time I try.
You see, I can’t say I won’t write about him again. Because at one point in my life, he was my world. And when someone is in your life and changes you so much, like he did, I don’t think they ever leave you. The person you were with them might be gone, but the person they were- they’re always with you. That’s the thing. When you love someone, you don’t ever stop. You kind of carry the people you love around with you. They’re pieces of you, you know? There is a piece of me that loved him and still loves him and always will. And when I write, pieces of me and the people I love and the people I’ve lost spill out of me. And I think, as long as I write, some part of me will still be writing about him. Without even trying.
They say that if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
I think you fall in love with a lot of different people, just in a different way. Not in a romantic way, not always. I think you fall in love with these different people, and you keep them inside of you and parts of them become parts of you. And so all these people I’ve loved, all these people that I’ve collected inside of me- they won’t ever die.
Because I write about them all.
They will be kept alive long after I will, in the words I have written about their smiles and about the way they have made me laugh. They will be kept alive in the fragments of a sentence that I have written about how they broke my heart. They will be kept alive in the letters I have written so I don’t forget how they fixed my heart.
And so he’ll never die, because I fell in love with him. I did. But I’m not in love with him anymore- though I still do love him.
I love him in a different way now. I love him because he was everything I needed nine months ago and he was good to me and he was all I could have hoped for. He saved me when I was about to give up.
And for that, I’ll always love him. I’ll always be writing about him, deep down.
But today is last time I try.
*a.g.
Not exactly poetry, but it is very special to me.
