This is what it is to fall for a boy with blurry edges. He will be unfinished but you will trust him anyway. This is how you learn how tenderness can be the texture of a hand in the darkness, the chill kiss of wind on your cheek, something you never saw coming.
This is how not to write a sad story. Say something a little sweeter. Smile like that night he locked his keys in his car and you spent four hours learning how to break into something you had no right to be in.
Forgive him for being one more door your hands shook too hard to open.
This is how your song goes. You bring the lyrics and he brings the tempo, you choreograph the dance and he forgets the steps but you forgive him.
You had a dream once where you got married, you never told him that, the wedding was in your study and he showed up half an hour late. You cried. You hugged him. You were in love. Even your dreams taste like disappointment.
This is how melancholy marks you, hopeful and hurting, how you make stained glass windows out of the shards inside your chest. This is how you bleed and make it something beautiful.
You went to his party and you swam in the pool. You ate his ice cream and you took his love. His refrigerator looks like a love letter to your face but he won’t speak to you in person, you wonder when you stopped being two people in the same picture and started smelling like wet paint.
Your life like a song you sing to yourself, an old one, the kind where the words come easy. His name like a tattoo you shouldn’t have gotten, a memory you can’t give back. How did you end up here.
This is where the music stops, the band packs up, your family kisses you and walks out the door. This is when the party’s over and no one wants your sadness anymore. Vibrating and waiting. You have lived all your life to hit this note.
Heart like a washing machine. Heart like a peanut butter sandwich. Heart cracked open on the surgery table, hopeful and broken. Haggard and raw. They tell you when you use a muscle too much you can hurt it.
It is beautiful to be the architect of your own injuries, to choose who will do you harm. To understand that healing is just another way of getting stronger.
This is how you look out the window every night and forgive him.
His face like a mistake you could have made and always did, like there could still be something more than this.
This is what it is to love in a world where people can be broken. To believe they can be fixed.