for the love and hurt in all of us
Because when they leave
All you will have left
Are the poems
And God knows the emptiness
Of those poems
Once the life is drawn out of them
As they quietly steal
People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3 am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes it’s 9 am on a tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen
bench waiting for the toast to pop up
And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.
I wrote letters to you. I wrote some that I almost sent, and many that I didn’t. I wrote about how much you meant to me, and how you made me feel… but I never sent them.
Sometimes, I wish I had sent them. Then I am thankful I didn’t because now, I can speak those words to you. Now, you can hear them from my mouth, rather than from a sheet of paper with smeared ink all over it.
Smeared ink. It reminds me of when you used to draw my name all over your homework assignments and your books. And that reminds me of how you used to stay home and read books and drink tea, because that’s what I loved.
I don’t think you realized. It wasn’t those books I loved, not those words,
not simply how you made me feel, but the silliness of a human being that you are. Those long eyelashes, those crooked teeth, and the aura of the man you were and are becoming… that’s what I love.
I’m still depressed, but how depressed I am varies, which is good. Much of the time, it’s a comfortable numbness that just makes things feel muted. Other times, I’m standing in the shower or something and I can feel the nothingness hurtling toward me at eight thousand miles per hour and there’s nothing I can really do aside from let it happen and wait until it goes away again.
- Allie Brosh - Hyperbole and a Half
It’s in the way you’re never looking at me, but through me.
How I can feel your eyes peering into my flesh while I talk, as if to trace the vine back to it’s root in my mind.
The overwhelming comfort of your smile that shines the brightest light even on the darkest of days.
The sense of security I feel knowing the love possessed within your chest, as you hold me in your arms.
Never do I experience comfort quite like I do with you, as you lay beside me in this bed, where we play this game for two…
Sometimes I imagine myself taking backward steps and with each inverted step, my body shrinks until it disappears.
Sometimes, I wish I could actually do that or if I could just disappear when I didn’t want to be seen…which would be always.
I would walk around the hallways and listen to people talk about love and politics and dreams they have for their futures.
And I would be okay with just existing, if it meant I would never have to feel self-conscious or worry about hurting someone’s feelings or disappointing someone.
Shadows settle behind us,
but we both are still
becoming. Would you
like a poem written
about you? One day
I’ll reveal the truth, how
I really feel, but right
now all I can say is
that you’re someone
I could fall in love with.
You should know
all my old feelings
left from someone
before you, and
those feelings are
dead and gone,
and our bruises and
broken bones heal—
we’re the lucky ones.
Or something more,
Cause I know,
If it was just a crush
It wouldn’t hurt this much
I tried to deny and neglect
But I knew in that moment,
That I was in love with you
I can’t determine the acids and bases of a dissociation constant because I’m sitting here thinking about the acidic feeling of you dissociating yourself from me.
The way chemistry hurts my brain, you hurt my heart.
Sunsets remind me of God & chemistry reminds me of you. Not because we had it or because we took it or because I was so bad at it and I always needed your help, but because of the way it boggles my mind and the way I somehow always end up writing poems about love when I’m in the middle of an equation.
I guess I’m always in the middle of an equation.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned while living, it’s that
I don’t know anything.
I stride through, as if
I actually know where I’m going.
And the awful truth, is
I’ve never really known.