The first time you said ‘I love you’ it got lost among an exodus of letters.
The thing I remember most about that night was the clicking of my keys as I replied.
This was what we were suppose to do, taught to do,
this is how love goes.
Like good soldiers that we were, we took aim at each other hearts.
They told us that the war will be over as soon as we fell in love, just pull the trigger.
They said that these bullets of love would heal our brokenness,
but they only caused us to bleed.
The congregation yelled ‘do not yield, this is the cost of love’.
But how much blood can one lose before they faint?
No matter how hard we tried to patch up each other holes, we couldn’t.
Humans are not meant to be bandages, the scars upon my wrist are proof of this.
The last time you texted “I love you” to me I read it over and over,
staring at it, like a piece of art that I didn’t understand.
I am so sorry that we could not save each other with this game
but this is what we are supposed to do, this is the cost of love.
I have revised this poem multiply and I am still not sure if is done, but nonetheless here it is.
