Poem: Loved. Unknown. Lonely. Mistaken.

She dies a little when he says sorry. So that’s it? Another apology? Is that all you’ve got for me today? He doesn’t know any better.

The sinner will melt his skin into your bones if he could.

There is lava everywhere and we can’t share a day without finding flaws to make us jump. There is enough distance between us to make the sun and the moon seem like two love birds who should’ve pushed a little harder to show up all at once.

And while we’re on the topic of day and night, you’re on my mind daily and you’re the reason why it’s so hard to sleep.

I keep telling myself that there’s enough hope out there to save myself from who I used to be. I keep waking up with a belly full of regrets; maybe that’s why I skip breakfast and lunch.

I have a basket of poetry for dinner and it’s the only thing that ever fills me up.

The weight of my soul doesn’t match up with the weight of my body, apologies are the only thing I eat enough of.

Another “I’m sorry” and I’ll be full again.

 

Some would say I’m full of shit. What’s a writer to a poet? Just someone who’s better at bullshitting. Maybe I’m kidding myself and there’s just a whole other world behind these doors that I’ve nailed shut.

Behind the blinds, before the sun comes in. Behind my lies, before the truth sinks in, like black coffee that wasn’t brewed right.

We’ve been spilling the beans and claiming that ink is all we know.

Some say that eyes are the windows of the soul, I have eyes dipped into ink and written into oak.

Which parts have I shown and which hidden parts speak out the most? Those are the bits of who I am, and I love them to death.

I want a lover that knows my words inside out before I even have a thought. I want a lover that knows the size of the ocean and claims that it is intense enough to cut deep space open with nothing more than another I’m sorry. I want a lover that would tell me there’s no need to feel sorry for who you can’t be, rather, you should feel sorry for who you couldn’t be when you needed to be that person.

 

Baby, mistakes come in three.

For every broken heart, you’ve got to write.

For the company that misery demands, you must love yourself.

Wake up and eat your breakfast, smile a little today. Everything’s going to be okay.

No, we don’t have to fall in love. I don’t have to be your lover to be able to love you. We don’t need anything to our names. We don’t need the stars. We don’t need the poems. We don’t even need the feeling of home because as long as you’re trying, I think that speaks enough for the sun to rise and for the moon to be full.

They say that we should stick to the familiar, if you take a risk and fail then you’ll just end up miserable once again. But what about the what if? What if we risk it all and get away with it? What if we make it through all of this without even a small scratch?

There is hope where you see pain.

Where one sees ugliness, another sees beauty.

Where you’ve been blind, I can show you the way.

Where you’ve been mute, I can speak you into my truths.

Where you’ve been deaf, I can feel the vibrations.

Where you lost yourself, that is exactly where I’ve found you.

Alone, alone, alone. Lonely, lonely, lonely.

 

Wouldn’t you know? The prettiest stars usually end up clustered together. A universe within a universe within a universe. I want to love you like that.

He doesn’t bat an eye every time a tear falls through the fingers she loaned him to warm up his night.

Another brush of his lips and there will be a smile waiting for him at the bottom of the glass, another piece of his heart and she will see that the world doesn’t only turn when you hear the words you want.

How did we end up like this? An ocean of regrets trying to forgive where we became two hearts beating for three. that’s the thing about jealousy, we feed on sentences we believe should be for us and curse the light for showing up too soon.

The sun dims when you enter the room, the clouds always seem to have something better to say when every pocket is full.

I over think each minute until we are a hypothetical season trying to love through winter and wondering where summer goes when the hugs go silent.

 

What hurts the most is realizing how little I think about you anymore. Every unanswered goodnight, each letter I saved to play for the stars to reflect on those lost, another day of finding footprints towards places I can’t hear your laughter.

What do you call a dream that keeps on coming back?

A love you can’t see, but keeps finding its way into the core of your veins?

An equation that only feels complete when your memory meets with me for coffee?

A day that doesn’t end until I hear the dial-tone of a call that said they would never hang up?

I thought I found a home with you, but we were both running from the people we didn’t want to see, avoiding situational errors caused by the same hands that promised to love the earth tenderly, the same harmonious effort to extract positivity from an open wound.

We knew we were going to sink, we just wanted to test out the water.

We knew the first “I love you” was going to hurt, I just wanted to see how many people I could leave behind before losing myself.

Baby, home is a list of people that are never coming back.

Maybe I don’t want to be yours, maybe I don’t want to be mine, but everyday has a lot of questions needing answering.

 

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