poetry was easy for me,
till I had a muse.
but today, sitting at the same spot,
with the same air around me.
I try making sense out of my thoughts,
try arranging them into words,
does this deserve words?
is it worth my piece?
something that wrecks doesn’t actually deserve words,
but we still do it, we still break hearts and mend pieces out of them, seemingly therapeutic but, while we are at war, with ourselves it shreds every little dimension of who we are, but I still won’t stop writing about us.
Our love had grown, it grew to a point where we knew that the sunlight now was blinding us,
we had forced ourselves to believe that the heat is what we wanted,
that we would stand tall through the storm, no matter how long it lasts,
but last night,
as I cried a little less, learning from
a habit that it was meant to be,
that you would never leave, even when you had left.
This habit, the sinister.
it is one.
though the dreadful night talked me through,
smiling, I knew what had gone wrong.
perhaps, care wasn’t affection.
affection wasn’t an emotion.
it wasn’t love.
I smiled, later all the walls inside of me crashed down and nobody heard a thing,
but I had found myself.
with these walls crashed the habit of you.
it wrecks me to tell you this,
wrecked me to hear this from you.
we’re out of love.