Relying on our lies — foreverness
I miss you and you are out here living a life you never shared before and i am missing you to the bottom of my heart so what a heart it could be that does no more same for me so we know we are here where we were so long before so long today, so what a mistake we made, to be here where we never imagined three lights in a counting ray of oceans and today going on a separate ways so hold on i have to tell you something
an you let me down with a gun you shot me down even in silence
I'm away from you today so where you will be tomorrow give me a deadline when this distant will end so give me an option to dead so you just passing away from my heart or is it only you?
clear your head a little away so listen to yourself and do what feels right to you? i guess you applied these words to your life isn't ?
I want to ask you. will you ever leave me if things get hard? unbearable? yes you might and you will and you did — don't be angry if this is not truth so tell me what else is ?
People said you should love a writer — they’ll make you the perennial muse of beautiful things they wrote.
Except when you break a writer’s heart, a number will not only be a date in the calendar but a reminder of the first promise you made to the date you broke after. Winter will not be just an ordinary season but a time for lingering in memories of the past wrapped around a lover’s old black cardigan lying cold on the floor. A favorite song will carry messages between the lines just hanging in the air that you wished you’d forgotten. Green was not just a colour but the eyes you once favoured to look for in the crowd like a life in a graveyard.
Because when you break a writer’s heart, people never told you how they’d write like you’d have no way to escape from. Like the initials carved on a tree with the sharpest pocket knife — one that will live on forever. They will tell you how a heartbreak is not just a heartbreak but a journey not romanticized, but retold like a place revisited only in memory but bore familiarity more than the back of your hand. To show that love is as good and beautiful the first day when it was held just as the day when it left and was gone.
Because they’ll let you know how it was never really just ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ but rather,
i love you,
in every storm that once desert of dust
in every shade that once light
in every rain that once pain
in every month that once day
in the ever changing petals of roses
with all the thorns unclipped
and even in every raw pain —
as violets not only bloom
in its best blue to the purples of fade
but even after it tarnish and soon wither,
though Fortune said
it shouldn’t be you
i still, and will always be
in every poem i lay
say this love has always been
even in the most unwritten love of you
always carry love for you in you.”
