You are there,
Never here,
Never near.

I am here,
Never there,
Never aware.

The both of us,
We're moving dots;
Always crossing paths,
But never actually meeting in the middle.

i’d written line after line
about the look in your eyes
the way i felt like i could die
but what’s the point now
in all those wasted words?
when all that’s left hurts.

Love is a painful thing, with it's varying degrees, it's overemotional arguments. It gives someone power over your heart, a power that is often misused. Every time it is, it feels like they've taken away a piece of your heart, and stomped the life out of it. When it happens so often you are numb to it, you are not loved, you have been used.

Sometimes during our darkest nights,
We forget the ones who love us most.
We forget to appreciate those we yearn for,
Day in and day out.

Sometimes I go through a month or two where things start getting better, and I’m doing okay and then things start to happen and it gets bad again.

One of the nice things about being a messy person is that sometimes when you’re digging for something, you find something else. Something that you haven’t seen in ages, or have forgotten about. Something that makes you happy.

I’ll be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day.

"come return our ****** shoes." you mutter to yourself
you look me in the eyes with a sheepish smile and tell me it's an "acronym for crocs."
and i double over and laugh because i've gotta say, that's the stupidest thing i've heard in a long time
but **** is it good to hear your voice.
to hear you laugh and feel your hands on mine
"i hate crocs" i say, interlocking my hands in yours "but i'll wear them if it means i get to see you everyday"
you roll your eyes at me shooting back some sarcastic response but i don't hear it
i grab at your hands and i can't feel them
i try to see your beautiful eyes but i'm only met with darkness
darkness and a racing heart at 3:17 am

Sometimes I'd find myself awake at four in the morning with a sense of longing and I’d type this long letter for you and after moments of contemplating myself, I'd delete it. But there are times that I get really weak and I can’t help it. I miss you, I really do. This is why I’m fighting the the urge to think about you let alone write about you and yet here I am, staring at the insertion point blinking back at me.

I always thought about how the little things matter, how these tiny pieces, when put together has the ability of making us feel whole and hurt us at the same time or how they make us remember. Missing you starts from the little things that'll eventually pile up into this huge mess of feelings.
Leaving me out of control, alone in misery.

——

I hate how I remember you in the morning, when the clock strikes eight, as the warm and fuzzy early morning breeze embraces my body,
I can’t help but wonder if you’re already awake
Have you started your day with a cup of of coffee? I know that's what you usually do.
Or at least, I knew..

I remember you at noon, you've always dreaded this part of the day. At this point, the scorching heat is just overwhelming.
You hate how the noontime sun burns and makes your skin feel dry.


I remember you in the afternoon, a cup of coffee in one hand, looking up the sky from your office window, wondering why you're at work on such a lovely day.


I remember you at night, while the stars lie like blankets on the evening sky,
you're on your rooftop, finding constellations because it relaxes you, it makes you feel safe,
you've always told me about how you love the night more than day,
"It's more richly colored", that's what you'd say while i fight back the laughter



Finally, I remember you at midnight, it's in these wee hours of the night where I find myself weak,  everything is silent and almost everyone is soundly asleep.

You were the night and I was the day and even if we met halfway, it never felt right to stay.
But I've realized how painful it is to not have you around, no one could ever fill the void that you've left. I've lost a piece of myself that I could never find again

let me tell you the story
of the girl who laced cigarettes
with the taste of coffee
the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics
and the guy who knew nothing of the sort

she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists
and broke silence with unessential questions
she wore her wounds in a tight braid
and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book
she described her mind as retired
from all the wars she has won and lost
she exclaims sighs of relief
and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism

on the other side of the universe, however

there exists
the personification of oblivion
he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice
and words misunderstood by his own kind
he returns to his world for temporary release
of what
he is still unsure of
and yet
he is certain of the presence of sadness
he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment
and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats
he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition
and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret
he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise
a promise of better days to come
he has gone from mountain to mountain
in hopes of a brighter view of the sun
but amidst all his travels,
he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames

and so,
he appears to be void
of reason
of worth
of a sense of purpose
of plans of the future

and maybe this is where the story ends.

with both their hands shaking from an overdose
with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves
with the unspoken truths
and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown
with curses of similarities
and vows of their difference
with her,
believing she already knows too much
and with him,
thinking she is yet to know more

or maybe I was wrong.

because maybe,
just maybe,

this is where the story begins.