i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.

ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.

iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.

iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).

v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.

vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.

vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.

iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.

ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.

x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.

my hands smell like chemicals from developing film rolls and no matter how hard i scrub at them i can’t get you out from under my fingernails.
i had a dream about you the other night.
it was casual, fingers intertwined as we walked down twisting streets and we didn’t say anything— you just smiled at me,
that grin could heal broken bones and black eyes.
i wasn’t ever in love with you. i don’t know if you realize that. you were exciting and interesting and intoxicating, but the problem with talking to someone every single day means that at some point you’re not going to hear from them for 24 hours and that can **** you.
i don’t really miss you, not anymore, but sometimes things like dreams happen and i want to smile at you when i see you in the halls.
your hair as gotten long. it looks good on you.
i guess you just always knew how to keep things light and when everything always feels so heavy on my spine, that was a relief. you were easy to be around, until suddenly you weren’t.
i don’t think i’m ever going to forget you.
you’re going to be the first wound that ever scarred. i’m sure losing a lover is hard, but losing a friend can rip you apart. trust me, i’m an expert on it at this point, and i let all my weight rest on you to the point where when you suddenly weren’t there i couldn’t feel anything but falling.
for a long time, i romanticized my memories of you, trying to grasp onto you with rose-colored lenses that faded with age. i used to be angry at you, but the red eventually evaporated too. now i just.
see you.
you still make my hands shake and my stomach churn but mentally everything has stopped.
until i have another dream about you.

how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter

how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from the deafening blast of bombs

how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones

how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police   walls   barbed wire

true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war

    when it is a lie to speak
    a lie to keep silent

not easy

sometimes when I think of you, all I can feel are my insides internally drowning and the artieres start to ache with the lethal fluids from your words