The word I couldn't say

He made so many mistakes but every time I looked into those big brown eyes I forgave him all over again.

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80. To miss

i have missed people before, you all know that feeling. the one where you felt someone calling your name, but no one is behind you. you’re hearing things again. your hand feels itself being surrounded by ethereal fingers. missing, that’s what they call it. phantom limb, you’re a wordsmith designing new words to fit the piece of the puzzle that was left behind. i have missed people before, you know… when going to sleep at 10 pm is close to never, but far, far away on top of your dried tears there lies “again” waiting to follow behind never. a whisper of regret, a pillow scream of “i’m sorry”, and a beach howling meant to be heard only by the gulls. i have loved people before, you all know the happiness. that irresistible urge to call them yours. people aren’t possessions, but my god, was it nice to be yours. staying up past 10 pm was different then. i didn’t care what time it was, or how long it took for you to pray. i didn’t care about what day or how long we talked, as long as we did. i didn’t care about myself. and that is one of the worst things a human can go through because at that point… it starts to get ugly. all things beautiful strained by your selfless selfishness. your smile was not yours. your heart was not yours. your time was not yours. you soul was not yours. you words were not yours. your eyes were not yours. your life was not yours, and then people change, and then people leave, and then you’re alone again. never to be yours. i have loved people before, you know… the i can’t get enough of you, please, don’t leave just yet. i’d miss you too much. and there’s a toxicity among romantics who have an addiction with lust and love letters. we drink our own poison to make our own potions. we cast our own spells to be our own curse. we kiss our own lips to feel our hearts slowly break into a million bee stings, all in one spot, all at once and every little bee will die, the flowers will go next, and it won’t be fun, no, no, no, it won’t be fun. you will cry because hey, you missed them today. you will want to go back to bed, because hey, you woke up hugging your mountain of pillows and not them. they’re with someone else or just finally decided that your bullshit isn’t worth it. i have missed people before and i have loved people before… that was then, and this is now. i miss you because on the days when you don’t talk, i wonder if you’re okay and how bad it must feel since you have limited yourself to only a few real and genuine people who you might share your heart with means that you’ve been hurt before. and i hope i never add to that list. i love you because during the nights when i’ve stared into a cabinet and wonder how long it would take until i gave up entirely– you were there to keep my breathing in line. and we’re an island on most days, i’ve never met you and you’ve never met me. and it hurts to know that you provide a warm hug every time we chat online, but i wonder if you truly smile and do real lols, i wonder if you’re hurting more than you tell– i know you may be, i know your poetry is coated with metaphors, you once said you were the queen of hide and go seek, you once said you hid beneath the sea so that they could never tell when you couldn’t breathe, you once said you hid under your blankets because the lighting from his missed calls gave you chills and you wanted to curl your fist into the hardest soft ball and slam it straight into his fucking teeth, and you once said that hiding gave the spaces between your fingers, the spaces between the cracks of your heart and the spaces between canada and usa meaning. you said it gave it meaning. poetry doesn’t have to mean shit to anyone, that’s what you said. it doesn’t have to mean a thing. just to me. just from my heart. just like you. just like your heart. you no longer wear your heart on your sleeve, but why did you put it back on there just for me? that’s why i love you. and it’s such a silly string of words. i love you. people have died for those words. i love you. people have lived for those words. i love you. people have written to those words. my words? dead poets have written them nine lives over and yet, i have been led astray. you found me as a stray and kept me as your own. you once said you hid behind metaphors, i guess that’s why my poetry doesn’t look exactly like traditional poetry. it looks raw. it looks like a letter. it looks like directness. it looks straightforward. that’s because it is. it looks like you. it looks like your heart. you said that i was the definition for poetry, you were wrong. we are the definition to poetry. endless. limitless. timeless. ageless. nameless. but always, always, always heartfelt. and well, that’s why i think you’re beautiful.

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