Just when I thought things were getting better
You snap.
A twist in words
Or slip in tone

And snap.

A word misheard,
Or left unsaid
Or said
Because either could make you

Snap

I never knew what to say
Or not,
And when or where

Dancing to the tune of your voice
Slower here,
Gentler there.
Always cautious,
Hovering over the faint line of
Pain or love.

How do people decide to
Stop loving

When do they decide
No, that's enough
I'm picking up my feelings
These strings so intricately woven
Threaded into your life
My love, in your words, habits, time

I'm picking up and leaving

When do they decide that
Time can be rewritten
The past, that was the present
Loved, that was love and loving
is nothing

How can emotional investment,
the greatest expense,
dissolve

How do you go from loving to
nothing?

How do you go from loving to
Hate?

It's inhumane.

Love is selfish
Love is greedy
Love is conceited

Think about it.

We love to feel good
We love to feel wanted
We love to feel
We feel

I feel

Love makes you feel
Love is a feeling to be chased
Craved
Earned

Love is not selfless
Love is not boundless
Love is not for you or him or her or them

It is for the "I".
Love loves to feel loved.

I ruined it.

I ruined it.

I ruined it.

Overthinking,
Spiraling,
Questioning.

I ruined it.

I ruined it.

The quirks you once loved,
you hate.

I ruined it.

I hate me for ruining it.

I don't want to write about anything else except you,

which is a shame because the world is
so pretty.

The sun and the bees and the way clouds move in the
breeze

the golden slates of sun that

I hate you

because I can't write about anything else except you.

It hurts to hold on
And yet I refuse to let go.

I don't want to restart,
learn a new favourite colour
or how he likes his coffee

I don't want to know
a new favourite film
or learn the name of his dog

I don't want another he, him or his.
I don't want to know anyone else.

I like knowing you like red
and black coffee.
You wake up early and struggle
to sleep.

I don't want to say anymore because those details
are for me.

Like you were,
for me.

Why can't you be for me?

I don't like ultimatums,
they're bitter and they stain
relationships

but if I chose to leave,
do I announce it?

If the reality of leaving really set in,
would anything change?

Would you apologise?
Would you care?
Would you look at me again?

Maybe we write to
make ourselves feel better

about the pain,
heartache
and every other
torturous infliction
that gnaws at our insides

Maybe we write to
survive the torture

because,
instead of screaming on the underground
or crying at dinner
we wait for the confines of paper
or thumbs to Notes.

Maybe we write
because we know
nothing else

isn't that ironic?

We know nothing.
Maybe that's why we write.

Sometimes it's difficult
To let something go
Someone

Sometimes it's difficult
To let something in
Someone

Sometimes the footprints
Are scars
Nails scratching at walls and blood smeared so
Deep

That letting go means
The end

Of me
And you.

I miss you
and it's breaking me.