That’s the thing about pain;
it demands to be felt.
John Green taught me that,
on a cold November night,
with the moon high and bright,
the wind rapping at my frail,
poorly built windows,
sending an unbearable,
uneasy chill throughout my room.

Nothing torments me more,
than having to toss you away,
dispose of your remnants,
to wash and scrub the mere
fragrance of your soul,
from this interior,
made of creaking,
wooden floorboards
and flimsy painted walls
that people like to call,
a home.

I suppose it’s time again—
to be alone.
Just when I’d gotten used to
being intertwined with someone’s soul,
my very essence being painted
with your once existing love.

But the loneliness,
it seems to have rendered
my happiness more likely.
It helps me to enjoy the finer,
simpler things.

I find a little peace
in the death of plants
when Autumn has come around.
The trees change so drastically,
their leaves vibrant reds and yellows,
until they descend onto the ground,
decaying, renewing the soil that
provides nutrients for that same tree.
The thing is, is that they are changed.
They’re changed by inexorable forces,
but they continue to move on,
becoming the ultimate masters of
letting go.

On a summer night,
right after a thunderstorm,
the way the mist causes my hair to frizz,
the way the wind blows through my hair,
it reminds of a new start, a new beginning.
It reminds of a promised day of happiness.

Nothing soothes my soul more
than the sound of perfectly tuned
guitar strings being strummed,
and then fading into nothingness.
But the thing that pains me most
is it’s nothingness reminding me
of the silence once shared
between our kisses.

That’s the thing about it,
the pain demands to be felt.
No matter how hard I try
to write off these feelings I harbor,
they remain,
and I’m never able to stop—
to stop writing about you.