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There were midnights when I could still tell you about my dreams. Of course, they were always about us — marvelling at the colors of the sky. With you, standing under the sun and getting lost in the afterglows and collapsing with the black holes sounded romantic. One night, I would dream about reading the books we collected together. Other nights, I would dream of kissing the tips of your lashes inside our blanket forts in terry cloth robes and Birth of Venus and Starry Night socks. Regardless, we would be up at 5 am — you with your whole bean coffee, listening to the tales authored in my sleep.

Except that in my dreams, it still feels like her instead of you. It always does. So tonight, I hope you keep yourself warm and touch the dream catcher tattoo on your nape and not think of me anymore. I know that I'm the reason for your sleepless night and memories dressed in nightmares, but tonight, I hope that you go back to sleep and no longer dream of the love I fabricated. And when it's 5 am, I hope you realize that you need something a little better than my dreams. I hope you brew your coffee to the right strength and no longer look at where I used to sit to tell you my daytime stories. So go back to sleep now. You'll be okay — without the what if's and the dreams and the happy ending written in our name. You'll be okay, darling.

You'll be okay without me.
i could write poems about
the museums kisses we imitated
from paintings hung
in front of us,
about the sudden 4 am drives
because we couldn't wait
for the morning
to see each other,
about our 5 am musings about
not repeating
my parent's history
of falling out of love.

but no, darling,
because this poem
is about the pretend good night kisses
that do not quite touch my skin,
this is about the 4 ams
spent waiting for the sound of your car
or your footsteps
to the front door.
this poem darling,
is for the sound of my heart
breaking the silence that lasted
'til 5 and 6 ams.
this poem is about us —
becoming just like my mom and dad.

this poem is about the songs
that ran out of tune,
and the thousandfold letters
that spilled that day you left
and the poems i was never
able to read again.

darling, this is a poem
about our undoing;
it's about us
giving up on us.

this is about the last time
we made love,
when it wasn't even one.

this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.

a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.
I'm so tired of being anxious,
of self-disparaging and being
all the **** time.

I just wanna forget being damaged
for once,
and run and run
and crash somewhere better
and breathe again,
and feel again,
and live again.

you held my hand;
fire on ice,
ice on fire,
with that summer-and-flares
kinda smile; somehow
it looked out of place among the chaos.

but little did you know,
and little did i,
that that touch
had black-eyed susans growing
on the cracks of the walls
around my heart.
fray narte Sep 6
the world we're in is made
for the silence between your words
now filled with goodbyes, un-lingering;
it is made for you,
breaking my heart in ways
poetry can never beautify.
it is made for the
goodnights never said
and your sneakers,
now missing from the shoe rack
and the last scents of your perfume
on the blanket you left behind.

but in a perfect world
beyond the black hole we're in,
your playlist is still my voice
saying i love yous in a loop.
in a perfect world,
the paper roses still bookmark
our favorite pages;
the side of your eyes still wrinkle
at the sound of my name;
we still live for the 5 am silence
mixed with regular coffee sips
and empty streets
and eye contacts
and that was our kind
of making love.

in a perfect world,
i still read you limericks
and you still annoy me
with your terrible puns
and we still tackle each other in bed
and it still leads to snuggling up,
and never to empty stares
and heartbeats that have
started beating backwards.

in a perfect world,
i'll never run out of metaphors
to write another poem for you,
the way you run out
of love for me.
in a perfect world,
you'll never slip out of my hands
the way my hair
has slipped out of yours.

in a perfect world,
i won't have to write this poem, darling

cause in a perfect world,
i never would have lost you.
in a perfect world,
you've never left at all.
your smile's still there when i wake up;
i'm still your cliche
"girl who feels like sunsets in a winter",
and i'm still
the one you love.
fray narte Sep 4
there is
the calm
and after
in-between that
is my mind,
in a
n e v e r - e n d i n g
fray narte Aug 29
I know a thing or two about couple stuff, darling, and neither of those fits in the space in your heart. The rest of the world basks in love and all its typical aesthetics, you know, the usual; holding hands while overcoming fears and jumping off buildings, and sitting at beach under the midnight sky, talking while meteors come to listen, and staying in small-town bookstores for hours and seeing metaphors from the steam coming off their favorite coffee brew.

But then, loving you isn't all about walking down a trail of roses under pretty sunset hues; it's not sharing the same wanderlust and flying to countryside Europe. Loving you is writing alternate endings to a tragic film, only to find it even more frustrating. Loving you is getting ****** in wormholes leading to chaotic, parallel realities. Loving you is crashing on brick walls, and dancing under the falling debris made to look like a summer rain. Loving you darling isn't like love at all.

But if you give me a chance, I'll kiss you in the subways and make poems out of it, as if the meeting of our lips creates milky ways and all other celestial bodies poets write about.

So let me love you, darling, despite all of this.

Let me love you, the way you deserve it.

Let me love you nonetheless
fray narte Aug 8
She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.
fray narte Aug 8
When I leave,
cut me out of our
polaroids taped
on your bedroom walls;
let the vowels in
‘i love you’ fade,
like the last bits
of my scent left
on the pillows we shared,
let yourself forget
the words to the verses
to the songs
we said
were ours.

When I leave,
don’t say my name
like a post-nightmare
or re-read the poems
I wrote for you when
we were out at the sea
or looking at the stars
from my favorite spot.

When I leave, darling,
please remember
that I am sorry that
you fell in love
with someone
who left
she promised
would not.

I am sorry
that you fell in love
with someone
who needs to leave
she gets left behind.

I am sorry, darling
you fell in love
with someone
fray narte Aug 3
we do not
burn down
with the fire —
we become it.
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