Love, I do still listen to the music that we use to listen to. Eat in our favorite place where we use to hang out. Go to the bookstore that we use to stay for hours. Still playing the song that you use to teach me in my guitar.
Suddenly, you left. Without a word. Without a message. Without a call.
I'm used to be called every night. To be chatted every night. The love is still there. But too soon suddenly all went away.
I knew there is someone else. Now, it is not me that you take to the fast food that we use to eat. You no longer stay at the bookstore that we use to stay for hours. And I don't play the guitar anymore.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with poetry and writers, and the smell of old bookstores, and of the soil after the daybreak rain. I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with saving people with messed up souls, that I allowed you to stop hearing the stories they tell at midnight when they’re lost in unknown towns concealed beyond the gaps in their ribs.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with songs that could’ve saved your life, that I allowed you to walk past the paintings in a museum, and that I allowed you to stop seeing movies that could’ve reminded you of how it feels to feel again. I’m sorry that I allowed you to stop sparing glances at the myriad of city lights in smoggy cities and the spaces between fading pedestrian lanes — that I allowed you to stray far from mountain-and-sea sunsets, and the outline of a crescent moon, and the beauty of conversations that last ‘til sunrise.
I’m sorry, darling.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things you wanted to stay in love with.
I’m sorry that I allowed you to fall out of love with the things that kept you alive.
i don't love you. no i simply love everything about you i love the simple aggression of the way you write and speak, your mind which says volumes in almost no words at all. i love the glint of determination always present into your deep dark eyes, which tell me that the strong woman inside is being trapped, trapped by the hollow cage of a girl she's been burdened with all these years. i love the wings, the scales which shiver with every step and cast brilliant beams of light off of their sharp red wherever you go. i love the rhythm which with your poetry echoes in me, making me feel the pain of the man, the woman, the child and the lonely girl who you talk about. i love your friends your interests your love for coffee and bookstores and the rain