dear you,
i’m in love.
yes. you were
waiting, i
bet, for this.
this time, though,
it is not
what you would
think. it’s me
this time, not
you, although
it’s still you,
but not in
the way it
used to be
you. it’s my
fault this time,
my doing,
my painful,
pitiful,
suffering.
it’s you in
the sense that
i cannot
control you.
this time,
it’s your mind and your thoughts
the things that slip off of your tongue
the words you put, pencil to paper
the ideas that come out in your songs
it’s your eyes and your sight
the careful observation of beauty
the need to bask in warm, pure light
the stare you give me, rarely now
it’s your movements and your touch
the hugs where you grip my shoulders
the times where i’m drunk and playing with your fingers
the warmth you give off and your gorgeous smile
none of them
are mine to
have, to take
to keep, to
love, to break
i miss you
and to go
and detach
to break what
we have, that’s
the hard way
out. but i
am trying
to help me.
i feel the
same way i
did when you
said i was
wrong about
this. about
how i feel.
i’m hoping
disposing
myself of
you, means that
the dreams will
go away
too. but if
they stay,
i’ll give you
a quick call.
probably
a text, to
be honest.
i love you,
unhealthily,
with every
part of me.
keep in touch,
please.
love,
me.
it is better to regret doing something instead of not doing it at all.
